


Penelope

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [4]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Banter, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Homer references abound, Loving Marriage, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: She’d waited ten years for him to come back, like he’d promised. And it hadn’t been without its hurdles, or with her heart free of doubts. Ten years is, after all, a long time. But...some things are worth the wait.Companion to Sea Songs. There's been waiting, and ten years of it. Now there's peace, and long-earned at that; the culmination of a crew-wide betting pool, and a wedding at sunset, flowers in her hair and across the deck of his ship. And there's drinking, and a lot of it, but of course, that's no surprise to anyone. Their Captain is getting married—it only figures they’d throw one hell of a party to celebrate.





	1. king, come home

**Author's Note:**

> This fic expands upon the events surrounding Shanks and Makino's wedding in [Sea Songs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8491117). Title seemed apt, Penelope being the real MVP in the Odyssey (although Shanks is, thankfully, a more reliable husband than Odysseus).
> 
> Please mind the rating! There's smut hereabouts. And mutual, shameless adoration.

The morning after he got back was, ironically, an exercise in letting go, fingers twitching against the sheets as Makino slipped from under his arm, laughter trailing in her wake and her smile already anticipating his refusal as he threw patience out the window with his next breath, catching her hand to tug her back before her warmth had even fully left him.

He caught her as she fell, the soft _oof_ escaping her dissolving into peals of laughter still touched with sleep, and when he curved his arm around her back he felt her yielding, the rumpled sheets forgotten in favour of the soft skin under his palm, until there was no space left to name between them.

The sunlight kissing the windowsill was testament to how far she’d let herself be distracted from her usual routines, and, “ _Shanks_ ,” she chided, but the reprimand was softened into an endearment by the breathless laugh that followed. “I need to open the bar.”

“It’s still early,” he countered, an open-mouthed kiss mapping the curve of her shoulder.

“Hmm, yes, and people get up early here,” Makino said, carding her fingers through his hair. “No sleeping until noon.”

“I resent the assumption that I do that.”

Drawing back to look at him, her raised brow said enough, and he grinned, reaching up to run his hand through her hair, smoothing out some of the tangles, before cupping the back of her head to pull her down for another kiss.

A noise of protest fell against his mouth, even as she tilted her head down to deepen the kiss. “The bar—”

“Looks spotless, knowing you,” Shanks said, nipping at her jaw. “And there’s no one around. We have time.”

He heard her hum, the sound teasingly contemplative, but he felt her yielding a bit more, even as she said, “I’ve already slept in as it is.”

His grin turned wicked. “'Slept' is such a nice way of putting it.”

She pinched his side, dragging a howl of laughter from his chest. “You can call it whatever you like. I’m not going to be lewd.”

“I beg to differ, my dear. Some of the sounds you make—”

“ _Shanks_.”

“I’m just _saying—_ ”

She kissed him, muffling the words against his mouth, and his laughter. “Even so,” Makino said, punctuating the remark with another kiss. “I’d rather people didn’t immediately jump to that conclusion. Which they will, if I walk downstairs four hours late with my hair like this.”

He gave a playful tug at it. It fell around her shoulders, the sleek mass tangled with intimate things. “This hair? I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

The look she offered him was entirely dry, and she gave a tug at his hair in return. “I doubt they’ll think there’s been much _sleeping_.”

The arch of his brow told her his thoughts on that, even before he added, “I hate to break it to you, my heart, but if discretion is what you were going for, I think that ship sailed yesterday. Didn’t exactly scream ‘restraint’ when you threw yourself at me. Not that I’m complaining! But I don’t think there’s anyone in this place who thinks we spent the night catching up.”

His grin stretched then, a wild, impish thing. “In the strictly professional sense of the term, that is. From where I was standing there was quite a bit of _catching up_ happening.” He tilted his head, as though in thoughtful consideration. “And quite a bit of standing, too, on my part.”

Her sigh rushed out in a laugh. “You’re shameless.”

“To the marrow of my bones.”

Makino only shook her head, but her smile wouldn’t budge, and with a lingering kiss and the tender trail of her fingertips along his jaw she eased herself off him, slipping out of his reach with a trilling laugh when he gave chase, until he was seated on the edge of the mattress.

She very pointedly didn’t drop her gaze from his, and Shanks felt his smile stretch wider at the blush that darkened her cheeks, and made no move to cover himself.

“One more kiss?” he asked, expression entirely boyish, and saw from her own when she relented.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she dipped her head to meet him, and, “Last one,” she warned. “But if you get dressed and come downstairs, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“If I make _you_ come, do I get extra bacon on the side?”

She slapped his chest for that, startled laughter falling into the space between their bodies. “What’s gotten into you this morning?”

His grin was devilish, and without missing a beat, “I’d ask you the same, but I kind of already know the answer,” Shanks quipped, and when she snorted it took every ounce of restraint he had not to pull her back into his lap. “Twice, too. Well, sort of. I did have a hand in the first one, though.” He wagged his brows for emphasis.

Makino looked at him. “Do you rehearse these things beforehand, or do they just come to you?”

His face lighting up, he saw realisation as it dawned on her face, and before he could speak, “Let me guess—you were about to take that ‘come’ and make something dirty out of it?” she asked.

“You know me so _well_.”

The look she gave him tried very hard to be reproachful, but with the smile she couldn’t seem to keep off her face, she didn’t quite succeed. And standing before him, not a stitch of clothing on her and her hair in gentle disarray, it was difficult keeping his own smile contained, and from showing every single thought running through his head at the sight of her.

The years hadn’t changed her much, but he’d reacquainted himself with the shape of her the night before, and in the early morning hours; that tiny, perfect body, bared under his fingers. The tender slope of her collar and the rise of her small breasts, and the lovely dip of her waist towards her hips. The dark curls at the apex of her thighs. It was a homecoming in itself, re-learning the map of her soft skin, her little sounds. Not the swelling rise of a white-capped surf slipping between his fingers, but solid warmth meeting his touch, jutting bones and the delicate scars of a quiet, domestic life, so different from his own.

She was watching him now, something deeply self-satisfied having kindled in her eyes at the blatant rake of his gaze across her body, but still tinged with that familiar and desperately endearing shyness that the years hadn’t quite managed to erase.

Raising his eyes to hers, “You’re making this very hard,” Shanks told her.

Makino’s laugh was soft. She hadn’t moved to step out of the way, and when he reached out to trail his fingers along the curve of her hip he felt the way she leaned into the touch.

Her hum rose, a tender and melodic purr. “It’s not the only thing I’m making hard, apparently,” she said, dark eyes gleaming, and his laughter was so startled it flung out into the quiet, prompting a smile, along with a touch of pink across her collar.

“God, I’ve _missed_ you,” Shanks said, no teasing in sight now, and watched as her expression softened, before she touched her palm to his cheek, her smile small and pleased.

He didn’t drop his gaze from hers as he traced his fingers over her hip, down the length of her thigh, her skin silk under his sword-callouses. And she’d read the intention in his eyes before he’d curved his hand inwards, seeking the softer skin there, and the beckoning warmth between her legs.

Brushing his thumb over the centre of her sex, he heard her breath hitch, and felt the way she shifted her stance, opening her legs further. And when he dipped a finger inside her she sank onto his hand, a moan trickling out of her as she braced herself on his shoulder.

Shanks hid his smile against her collar, flushed with warmth under his mouth. Ducking his head, he brushed a kiss to the swell of a small breast, stubble catching on her skin as he mouthed a nipple. “The bar?”

He heard her laugh, the breathless stutter of it as he drew back slightly to add another finger, and felt the way she clenched around them. “Can wait,” Makino breathed, her chest heaving, and when he curled his fingers, nudging her legs further apart, she muffled a moan into his throat.

He didn’t rush, pumping them into her slowly, before he ceased his thrusts, revelling in the way she continued on her own, and for all her earlier protests about delays to her daily routine she matched his patience, an early morning lethargy in the way she fucked herself on his fingers, leaving them slippery as she slowly brought herself to climax, her breaths laboured and the moan that rose from her leaving her in a whimper. And when she came it was a quiet breaking, her knees buckling and her hands gripping his shoulders. Shanks caught her descent, along with her intention as she climbed across him, withdrawing his hand to flatten his palm over her lower back as she eased astride his hips, and before the last shudder of her orgasm had left her, sank onto his cock.

His groan caught against her throat as her warmth enveloped him, a near-guttural sound as Makino clenched her knees, the feel of her soft little body in his lap and her tight heat around him leaving him with little mind for anything else.

She gave a slow roll of her hips, taking him further inside her with a soft little moan, before easing back up, his cock slick with her, and with her next thrust it was all he could do to tighten his grip around her back as she rode him. Still seated on the edge of the mattress, it made moving with her difficult, but by the moan she breathed into his ear she didn't mind the angle, and with the way she took charge, sliding herself up and down his length, Shanks didn't think he could have managed a protest if he'd wanted to.

The arch of her back saw him enveloped to the root, even as it didn't feel deep enough, his hand digging into her ass, pulling her to him as she took his cock inside her again and again, in and out, each time a little harder as she fucked him, until he could barely think. Shanks heard her soft little whines as she quickened her pace, her pants catching on a moan as he hit a spot deep within her, and felt her small hands releasing his shoulders to cup his cheeks, before she tucked her knees closer and bucked her hips, his name slipping past her parted lips, gasped into his mouth like a kiss.

He came sharply, shuddering into her, her own name imprinted on her skin where he muffled his groan against her shoulder, and he was hot and shivering all at once, shaking beneath her and inside her as she rode out his climax with that slow, tender patience that had him unravelling beyond recognition.

His sigh when it left him sounded breathless, sounded broken, even as it felt as though something in him had been mended. Makino said nothing, just ran her fingers through his hair, all of her so close there wasn't a part of her he couldn't feel, her breaths like his own and her nose pressed into the crook of his neck.

Lifting her head, she sought his eyes, her own curving at the goofy grin he gave her, which earned him an unbearably soft laugh.

“Did you have something to do?” he murmured. His voice sounded rough; his laugh deeper than usual.

“I can’t remember,” Makino said, reaching up touch his jaw tenderly. Straddling his lap, his cock still inside her, her eyes looked darker than usual in the buttery light, and he watched as they narrowed with fond reproach. “There’s this pirate who keeps distracting me.”

“Strange,” Shanks said. He grazed his teeth along her neck, and heard her draw in a breath. “You don’t sound very upset about that.”

He felt her exhale, and the leap of her pulse under his grin. “Well, he’s very good at what he does.”

“Oh _is_ he now?”

“Mm. Very talented. In many aspects.”

“Sounds like a well-endowed guy.”

“He is. Of course, his ego is the biggest thing about him.”

Choking on his own laughter, “ _What—_ ”

She nipped at his lower lip, stealing his laughing protest, and with a firm kiss, extracted herself with such a smooth grace it left him momentarily too distracted to tempt her back again, hearing the little sigh that left her when his cock pulled out. And when she tossed him a glance over her shoulder, all he could do was stare, his grin quite possibly the stupidest thing in existence.

His earlier proposal still sat, warm on his tongue, and watching her, Shanks found her acceptance in the barely contained smile that kept disappearing behind the fall of her hair as she bent to pick up her discarded clothes, hands quick and efficient on the buttons of her blouse and her kerchief caught between her teeth as she made to braid her hair.

And there was a different kind of intimacy, watching her dress, gaze following her movements as she rooted through her drawers, a contented hum rising from her chest that made his smile curve, and when he sank back against the mattress Shanks closed his eyes to the sounds of her quiet rummaging.

He could have fallen asleep like that, to the cool, salt-kissed breeze creeping through the half-open window and the feather mattress under his back. And he was well on his way when he felt the touch of her hand to his chest, and opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him, fully dressed now and with her bed-hair tamed into its usual sleek obedience.

He quietly lamented the wild grace of it, as Makino ducked her head to catch his mouth, the long braid slipping over her shoulder to fall against his chest. "You've been very attentive this morning," she murmured.

"This despite your protests," he countered with a low, rumbling laugh. "But we've long since established that I am a rogue, so I suppose you'll have to bear my roguish ways."

Her eyes shone. “Later,” she said, giving him another kiss, a promise bright in the gesture, emphasised by the way her hands lingered on his shoulders. “I’ll return the favour.”

Playing with the end of the braid, Shanks gave it a tug, grin curving against her mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm. And you can put your money where your mouth is,” she said. “Or alternatively, just use your mouth.”

He laughed, delighted. “I’m rubbing off on you, I think.” Then, “Wait—I can make something of that. Something about rubbing. And getting you off.”

Makino smiled, and kissing him again, said, “Think on it while you put on your pants. I’m not making you breakfast naked.”

“ _You’re_ not making me breakfast naked, or you’re not making me breakfast if I’m naked?”

She looked at him, dark eyes glittering. “The last one.”

He raised a brow. “Is the first one on the table?”

She hummed as she drew back. “Maybe.”

He tilted his head, considering her smile. “Would _you_ be up for doing it on a table?”

She was quick, grabbing a discarded pillow and giving him a solid _whack_ in the face, startling a laughing shout into tumbling off his tongue. And his laughter followed her own as she made for the door, leaving him on the bed, sated and boneless and with his heart almost unbearably light in his chest.

Grinning, Shanks followed the sound of her footsteps down the stairs, and closing his eyes he sought out her presence — that familiar tremor he’d recognise anywhere, a soft hymn to seeking ears used to louder noises. It wasn’t a presence that claimed space, but one that shaped itself around others, smoothing out sharp edges and settling into grooves and crevices. But there was a quiet persistence in it, gentle and inviting; the equivalent of a tender caress, tempting stronger forces to yield with small touches.

Rubbing his hand over his face, he stretched himself out on the bed, taking a moment just to enjoy the quiet, and the muted sound of Makino’s bustling at the edge of his awareness. It _was_ early, a good few hours until noon yet, and even if he didn’t sleep quite that long on most days, it was still earlier than he was used to rising.

But her promise of breakfast lingered, along with a sudden pang of hunger that had nothing to do with his persisting arousal.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he kneaded the kink in his shoulder, before lifting to his feet to hunt down his pants and shirt. He found the first by her dresser, but had to look under the bed to find the other, shouldering his arm through the sleeve without trouble, smile beckoned by the memory of tiny, impatient hands that had pushed it off his shoulders the night before.

He didn’t bother buttoning it, and left his sandals where they were as he made for the door, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and tucking a yawn behind his hand as he followed the corridor towards the stairs leading down into the common room.

He felt the new presence before he heard the voice, and stopped on the landing, brows pulling together in a frown and any lingering traces of sleep leaving him with his next breath.

“I heard,” someone said, a curious note sitting in the voicing of the words, but Shanks couldn’t decide if it was disappointment or something harder. But it was a man’s voice — and not one he recognised. “He’s back, then.”

There was a moment’s pause before Makino’s voice followed, openly wary; the emotion as easy for him to discern as if she’d worn it on her face. And he could picture her expression without trouble when she said, “Why are you here, Touya?”

“I guess I wanted to see for myself,” said the voice, before it dropped. “Or hear it from you, anyway.”

“You say that like I owe you an apology,” Makino said, and there was a new edge in her voice now, Shanks heard, frown deepening.

There was a tense beat of silence, and he didn’t need to see the man to pick out the various things in it.

“He’s not staying,” he said then. It wasn’t phrased as a question.

A single heartbeat followed. Then, “No,” Makino said, quietly. “He’s not.”

She didn’t mention the proposal, Shanks noted. And there wasn’t anything that suggested she was defensive. Instead it was just a simple utterance of fact.

Somehow, that didn’t sit well with him.

A scoff, then—a short, incredulous sound. “So—what?” the voice asked. “You’re okay with that? Just being here for him to come back to? Waiting, like—”

He didn’t finish, but the sudden pause said enough, and unbidden, the surge of anger that rose within him almost pushed him forward, when Makino spoke—

“Like what?” And there was something hard in her voice now that Shanks hadn’t heard before.

There was another laden pause, before a sigh fell into the almost rigid quiet. “Don’t you want more than this, Makino?”

The deliberate omission of an honorific made Shanks pause, but before he could consider it fully, Makino spoke up.

“More?” he heard her ask. But it wasn’t out of confusion, Shanks heard. Instead it was a tone that demanded the words were spoken as the accusation they were in truth, not the suggestion they pretended to be.

His next sigh was a keenly frustrated sound. “More than just being some pirate’s portside fling,” he said at last. “Do you really think you’re the only one? That he doesn’t have others? Don’t you think you deserve more than that?”

“I think you should leave,” Makino said.

“Makino—”

He was down the stairs before he’d had time to think about it, his steps loud and deliberate, announcing his arrival long before he’d cleared the last step, and he saw the stranger look up, startled.

Shanks didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, you were right,” he said to Makino, tone cheerful, and a touch marvelling. “People do get up early here.” He offered the man a disarming smile. “No shame in a morning drink, though. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

Inclining his head to look at Makino, Shanks found her expression trapped between relief and anguish, although the true reason for the latter remained beyond his grasp — for the moment, at least, and he shoved down his rising suspicions before they had a chance to properly take shape.

She met his eyes, but he didn’t reach out to touch her. He could have tucked a kiss to her temple, or simply stood closer, and if he’d been a territorial man he might have, if only to make a statement.

But he wasn’t the kind of man who threw his weight around without reason, even if there was part of him that had bristled at the obvious liberties the stranger had taken in speaking with her. But she hadn’t corrected him, and so it wasn’t Shanks’ place to assume, or mark his territory.

Instead Shanks allowed his presence to speak for itself — the easy intimacy between them that physical closeness had never been needed to convey, along with his unbuttoned shirt and his bare feet, and the fact that he'd come from upstairs, the implication louder than whatever verbal rebuttal he might have offered to the contempt that flashed across the other man’s face.

But, “I was just leaving,” he said, lips pressed together to suffocate a sneer, although he made a piss-poor job of it, Shanks thought. And he’d offered him no greeting, but then Shanks hadn’t expected one, and Makino said nothing as he made for the bat-wing doors, shoulders tense and steps too brusque to even pretend at indifference.

The soft whine of the swinging doors remained in his wake, the sound eerily jarring in the early morning quiet.

“Charming guy,” Shanks said then, after a lull had passed. “A recent addition to the local tapestry?”

Turning towards her, it was to find a pensive expression contorting her features, and her hands white-knuckled around the kitchen towel in her grip. She hadn’t moved from where she’d stood behind the bar when he’d come downstairs, but she looked up when he took a step closer, to lean his hip against the counter.

“Makino,” Shanks said simply. No demand, just a quiet assurance, and he left his earlier question as it was, and the choice to answer it in her hands.

He’d gathered from her responses — the slight edge in her voice, and her lack of apology — that whoever he was and however jilted his feelings, she didn’t consider herself to be at fault. And she was usually quick to apologise for the smallest of things, and sought to offer assurances where they weren’t needed. It was the kind of person she was, Shanks knew, and the fact that she’d offered neither now was telling enough.

Not a mutual romantic relationship, then. And for all that he wasn’t a territorial man, or even prone to jealously, the unbridled _relief_ that followed that realisation struck with more force than he’d anticipated.

Makino fiddled with the towel, gaze seeming far away, before her shoulders sank a bit. And Shanks felt a pang of irritation toward the stranger for putting that tension there, remembering how she’d been when she’d walked out of her bedroom only moments earlier.

“He’s a sailor,” she said then, flattening her palms over the bar top. She was very deliberately not meeting his eyes now. “He settled here a few years ago. It’s not often someone does, but it happens on occasion.”

She plucked at the towel. “He came by the bar a lot in the beginning, but there’s not much to do here, so I didn’t really question it at the time. And he was friendly, and nice to talk to.”

Something like embarrassment chased across her features. “It, ah, took me a while,” she murmured, ducking her head. “To realise why he kept coming around so much.” She was chewing on the inside of her cheek, something she had a habit of doing when she was concentrating. “One day he just told me outright. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Sounds familiar,” Shanks mused.

She looked at him, seeming startled, and he’d meant for it to be teasing, but the look on her face was so earnestly serious Shanks momentarily forgot what he’d been about to follow up with.

“No,” Makino said, the word surprisingly firm. “Or—I realise that it sounds like it, but it wasn’t the same as it was with you. Really, Shanks, it couldn’t have been more different.”

The fact that she was so loath to compare them made something in his chest sink, and he wondered how the encounter had gone.

“I turned him down,” she said then, as though having read his thoughts, the remark matter-of-fact, and he might have smiled at the implied assurance offered with the words, if it weren’t for the look on her face.

“He was disappointed, but he seemed okay with it. Except—he kept asking _why.”_ She curled her fingers around the towel. “I told him I just wasn’t interested, but he kept asking me to give him a chance. And I’ve been so used to everyone knowing the story, I just…I didn’t know how to tell him.”

She drew a breath then, as though bracing herself for what she was about to say, and when she looked at him there was regret in her expression — and something kinder, a familiar embarrassment.

“I made him dinner,” Makino said. “I wanted to explain. I didn’t mean it like a—like what he thought it was.”

Shanks said nothing to that, but watched as she dropped her eyes. “When I told him, it was…awkward. But he listened.” She paused, seemingly finished, although Shanks had the sudden sense that she wasn’t.

Something clenched behind his ribcage, and he almost dreaded what was coming — wondered suddenly if he’d been mistaken earlier, when he’d determined it a one-sided affliction. That perhaps it was more complicated than that, when Makino murmured, “He said that…if I ever changed my mind…”

She trailed off, although Shanks heard what she didn’t say, but the knot in his chest hadn’t loosened, only cinched tighter. But then—

“I thought about it,” Makino admitted, the words rushing out, like a long-held secret, and the knot in his chest unfurled like a coil of ship’s rope. Because for a moment he’d thought she’d been about to say something else, although looking at her now, Shanks realised this confession held a different implication for her than it did for him.

“I couldn’t help it,” she said, before he had the chance to speak. “I’m thirty, unmarried, no children. There hasn’t exactly been a shortage of people to remind me. And I thought—”

Her voice was quieter when she continued, as though confessing to a deeply private thing, and he realised why when she murmured, “Sometimes, on bad days, I thought that I’d imagined it—the way you’d been. That you’d wanted to come back, as much as I wanted you to. And it was…hard, convincing myself that it wasn’t just something you’d told me to make me feel better. On those days, I—I considered it.”

Still reeling from the relief, Shanks wanted suddenly to protest, but she looked at him then, and the heartbroken expression on her face drove the words from his mind.

And for all that he didn’t agree with her need to feel guilty, he couldn’t blame her for thinking that. He’d considered the same, after all — that she might not have welcomed him back with the same enthusiasm as she once had. Not after ten years.

“I hate that I considered it,” Makino said, voice breaking slightly over the words. “Especially now that—that you’re here.” A sharp breath left her, and when she pressed her mouth together he saw that she was holding back tears.

He stepped closer, and she turned towards him as he reached for her hand, running his thumb across the backs of her fingers as he lifted it to brush a kiss to the heart of her palm, and he felt her relax a bit, the rigid grip of her guilt letting go of her shoulders somewhat.

She touched her brow to his sternum, and when he sighed it held a chuckle, tucked against her hair. “My fool girl,” he said, the fondness in the words too bright for his humour to mask, although not that he’d meant for it to. “You could have, you know,” he told her. “I never wanted you to wait, if you’d rather—”

“Shanks,” she said, pulling back to look at him, and his brows lifted at the forcefulness in her tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. Waiting wasn’t hard because I missed having someone. It was hard because I missed _you_.”

His look softened, but before he could speak, “I just—I had a momentary lapse in judgement is all,” Makino said, reaching up to wipe at her eyes. “Like I said, nothing ever really happens here. You need to create your own drama.”

Her stubborn attempt at levity made him smile, and he reached up to wipe his thumb along her cheek, catching the tears when she blinked them from her lashes. “A good thing I’m back in your life, then. There’ll be no shortage of that.”

A wet laugh escaped her. “Someone had to relieve Ben at some point.”

“Yeah. I think he’s been looking forward to this reunion almost as much as I have.”

Her smile came, quick and effortless, and he drew some satisfaction from the sight of it. But then, her mouth pursing in that stubborn moue, “If I’d really wanted to settle down and marry someone else, I would have,” she told him. “But I didn’t. So there.”

Despite the sincerity in her words, the knot in his chest was non-existent, and his smile came without asking. “I’d like to meet the soul who thinks they can change your mind once it’s set on something,” Shanks said.

He didn’t tell her he was glad she hadn’t found someone else — that he’d never been so happy about anything in his life, save the fact that she’d agreed to marry _him_. Although he had a feeling she knew, by the way she was looking at him now.

“Yes, well,” Makino said, with a small shrug. “Someone told me once never to change for anyone.” She met his eyes. “I haven’t.”

Tipping her chin, he ran his thumb along her jaw, chasing a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of her kerchief. “Wise words,” he murmured. “Whoever told you that must be pretty smart.”

He felt her smile as it tugged at her mouth, her cheek lifting under his fingers. “He has his moments.”

He laughed. “Moments, huh?”

“Mm. Most of the time all I can get out of him are lewd jokes.”

“Sounds like a catch, if you ask me,” he said. “I’d tell you not to let him get away, but I have a feeling you’ve already made up your mind about that.”

She tilted her head, leaning into his touch. “Oh, I have no plans of letting him go now that I have him.”

Shanks grinned, but when he spoke his voice was too rough for teasing. “Lucky guy.”

Her smile stretched, a foolish thing of earnest feeling, and he felt that familiar surge of warmth in his chest that he was always surprised left him standing.

“So,” Makino said then, reaching up to take his fingers, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, before she tucked her hands around them. “Breakfast? I’m assuming you’re still hungry.”

“For you? Always.”

She slapped his shoulder. “You’ve already had _me_. Three times just this morning, counting that last one.”

He pouted. “You say that like there’s a limit.”

“You’re almost forty years old. Is there no sating that appetite?”

His grin turned wolfish. “I don’t know—want to try? And _ouch_ , by the way, for bringing up my age.” He gave her a look. “You of all people know there’s nothing wrong with my libido.”

She pursed her mouth to hide her smile, with no success. “Do you want me to make you breakfast or not?”

“Mm, that depends.”

“With that smile, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

His grin only widened. “Were you serious when you said you’d consider doing it naked?”

She laughed, taken aback. “Well it wouldn’t be _here,_ where anyone could walk in!”

“Oh, but how soon she forgets.”

Makino blinked, brows furrowing a bit in bemusement, and Shanks allowed his smile to stretch, wide and suggestive.

Then she noticed where they were standing, and the laugh that pulled from her took every last ounce of her earlier tension with it.

“You know,” he said, making a show of considering the common room. “Last time we did it here your back took the brunt of it.” He rolled his shoulder, as though in preparation for a stretch. “I’m willing to take one for the team this time.” Then, brows lifting suggestively, “Although it’s not much of a sacrifice. You know I like you on top.”

She stuck her tongue out. “You say that like you wouldn’t like me anywhere.”

He grinned. “Guilty as charged— _oh_. That gives me _ideas_.”

“Shanks.”

“Handcuffs could be tricky though, given that I only have one. But there are ways around that.” The look he gave her was almost predatory, the image already forming in his mind — the slender arch of her arms above her head, and her wrists linked. “ _You_ on the other hand…”

Makino sighed around her laughter. “If I cuff you to a chair, will you eat?”

“You? In a heartbeat.”

She pinched his side for that, and he caught her around the waist, swallowing her laughter and relishing in the feel of it where it leaped against her ribcage, pressed to his chest. And with her limbs loose of tension and no worries weighing on her heart, he didn’t spare another thought to regrets or could-have-beens.

Or breakfast, which in the end was so late in coming even Shanks was loath to call it that.

 

—

 

They broke the news of their upcoming wedding the rest of the crew later that day, to a rousing chorus of cheers and laughter, and the clink of a hundred money-purses slipping under the din of celebration, a cheery tune against a backdrop of entirely too-knowing grins.

Coins changed hands — a disturbing number, Shanks thought, watching the exchanges taking place, and the muted murmurs about days and hours. But their merriment was a bright, living thing, seeming to expand until it was pushing up under the ceiling, and he could only marvel at it as a glass found its way into his hand.

The sound of someone breaking into song sifted through the cacophony, an old sea shanty with bawdy lyrics that left a blush across Makino’s cheeks, for all that she must have heard far worse in her years as a barmaid. But the look she shared with him was private and clever, although Shanks doubted the shit-eating grin it left on his face was anything but painfully obvious.

And, “You sure about this?” Ben asked her, even as he held out his hand to accept several coins. Glancing at the pile, he arched a single brow. “This isn’t all of it.”

Yasopp forked over a handful with a grumble. “I was _one_ day off.”

Ben snorted. “As if he’d be able to wait.” Then to Makino, “Marriage means you’ll never be rid of him.”

She smiled. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Ben shook his head, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “On your head be it when he retires.”

“Why, Ben,” Makino said, demurely. “Are you going somewhere?”

That prompted a laugh, the sound the most honestly startled thing Shanks had heard from Ben in years, and Makino’s smile widened, coy amusement tossed to the wind to make room for unabashed pleasure. And when she slipped past him to make for the bar, Shanks stole a kiss to her temple, his own grin a smitten fool’s thing, and even Ben had no smart remark to offer this time, just a light shake of his head.

There were more than just the crew present, some of the villagers having come to join them, and there was none of the wariness he remembered from ten years ago present in their easy acceptance this time.

And their congratulations were earnest things when they were offered — although Shanks caught the occasional _well it’s_ _about time_ and _finally came to his senses, did he? —_ and most of them to Makino, who accepted each and every one, moving through the growing throng of people with that easy grace that drew his eyes and held them. Collecting glasses and plates, she stopped for conversation whenever someone tugged at her arm, her laughter too soft to rise above the din, but he found it in her eyes, and writ in the fine lines of her face.

He’d often been told he was the natural centre of things — the life of the party, a beating pulse that forced everything to move around it. But the heart of this party was a kinder thing, Shanks found now, her presence making no demands, but settling without imposing into every available sliver of space. Wherever she went she was greeted, their small touches easy and familiar. And she remembered every face and every name in his crew — and the new ones she learned, and lingered besides a moment longer than the rest.

Shanks watched her face, her conversation animated, and his own smile too gentle for the general noise and revelry as he watched her leave her mark on more than one world-weary and sea-worn soul.

There was no sign of her visitor from earlier, although Shanks didn’t know what he’d expected. But there was a lingering touch of irritation that the thought should come back to him, here and now, and when he had no reason to spare him so much as a second’s consideration.

“Something’s bothering you,” Ben said, putting his drink down. He kept his voice low, but Shanks caught the sideways glance that was offered, which said far more than the man himself.

For his part, Shanks hadn’t taken his eyes off Makino, and doubted that had gone unnoticed, either. And it was useless denying it, he knew, so he didn’t.

“It’s nothing serious.”

“But it’s something,” Ben said.

Shanks curled his fingers around the drink in his hand, the cool moisture running down the glass to seep into the wood of the bar. His eyes traced the marks left in the polished countertop, a haphazard collection of furrows and rings — ten years’ worth, and evident despite the obvious care taken to conceal them.

At first glance he’d thought the place hadn’t changed much, like the village itself, but there were always changes. The sea might be more prone to it, shifting currents and ill-tempered climates abound, but nothing was ever static; not even little islands where time seemed to stand still.

“There’s another guy,” he said at length, lifting his glass to his lips.

Ben turned his head at that, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “You’re kidding.”

Shanks was tempted to smile, just for that reaction. “It’s not like that. Just some kid who got his hopes up.”

Ben considered him a moment, expression unreadable. Then, “You always knew it was a possibility," he said.

Shanks cut him a look. “Yeah, and very much thanks to _you._ Weren’t you the one always telling me she might have married a farmer?”

He was rewarded with an arched brow for that. “Did you honestly think she would have?”

Shanks considered his glass again, and the question — the memory of the defiant tilt to her chin when she’d told him so in plain terms, and the way she’d looked at him when he’d left her on the docks with Luffy ten years ago. But his answer didn't require thinking. “No.”

“Of course, a sailor is a different matter,” Ben said, and despite himself, Shanks smiled, although couldn't quite ease away the edge in it.

“I’d laugh, but this guy apparently is one.”

Ben raised a brow, before his eyes narrowed. “You’re not actually worried about this kid,” he said.

Shanks sighed. “I’m really not.” Pushing at his glass, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know what it is. It’s not like she’s given me a reason to be worried.” He shook his head. “There was just something about him. Rubbed me the wrong way, I guess.”

“You think he’s going to be a problem?”

Shanks considered his drink, before lifting his eyes, seeking Makino across the room, and found her laughing at something Lucky had said. Her shoulders were loose and her ease evident, sitting in every little gesture and movement as she meandered between the tables, touching her hands to shoulders and backs as she passed.

And maybe it was the setting — the celebratory mood and the talk of marriage. The good-natured jokes about asking for her hand when he only had one to offer in return, and did she know what she was getting into, marrying their captain? Not a shred of ill intent behind any of it, but Shanks remembered the regret that had clung with such insistence in the wake of her confession earlier. And the words he’d overheard, and that lingered with too much persistence for him to ignore with the ease he’d hoped.

_Don’t you want more than this, Makino?_

She lifted her head then, eyes finding his through the crowd, and the smile that broke out across her face sent the words fleeing to dark corners, forgotten before he’d had the chance to draw another breath.

Looking between them, Ben snorted into his glass. “I guess that answers that question.”

Heart suddenly too light to bear, Shanks could only laugh.

 

—

 

He didn’t seek him out.

He probably could have, and without much trouble. The village wasn’t really big enough for them not to cross paths at some point or another, but seeing as he had no reason to confront the man, Shanks made no conscious effort to do so.

Of course, given the fact that the whole village was now aware of his intentions to marry their barmaid, Shanks wasn’t surprised that he was the one who was sought out.

He’d been making his way from the ship, a satchel of books tucked under his arm — only a small sample of the ones he’d brought back with him, but he’d need more than one arm to carry the rest, and most of the crew had retired for the night. And anyway, he had no intention of having an audience present when he handed them over, knowing what kind of reaction was likely to greet the gesture. She wasn’t a woman to be plied with gifts, but books were different — a rare indulgence, and the giving all the sweeter, as she never seemed to expect it.

There was one in particular — hand-bound with delicate metalwork, blood-red leather and gold clasps. A last surviving edition, although Shanks knew better than to tell her that. But he could imagine her delight, and his grin sat, silly and expectant on his face as he picked his way from the wharf into the village proper.

The sky sweeping overhead seemed endless, a blooming bruise of blues and purples bleeding night into the sea touching the horizon beyond the port. Around him, the cheerful sprawl of houses lay quiet, a few lights winking beneath awnings and in the occasional window. He saw Party’s further down the street, the lights within still lit, although there was no noise coming from that direction, as was usually the case whenever his crew was docked.

She would be busy with her closing routines, and there was something curiously gratifying about the thought, knowing what awaited him. Domesticity in the making, for all that it was an unusual one. And it wasn’t something he’d ever given much thought, at least not before her, although these days it seemed to be on his mind more often than not.

He was halfway down the street when he recognised the presence, and slowed his walk to a stop, smile slipping from his face for a second before he reined it back, and when Shanks inclined his head to take in the approaching figure his expression yielded no more than carefully polite interest.

Makino had called him a sailor, but it must have been on quiet waters, Shanks thought, because his face didn’t bear any of the signs of someone born with saltwater in their veins — the ones who didn’t just sail the sea but _lived_ it, every wild current and riptide. His features were too smooth, no scars in sight, and no outward signs of living under the relentless mercy of the sun on the open sea.

And he was young — closer to Makino’s age than his own, Shanks suspected, if not even younger than she was. And there was a dry thought following the realisation, that in all the years he’d held the title Emperor he’d seen his share of rookies come to challenge him, but never for this.

“So you’re the pirate,” the man said then, the way someone might say ‘so you’re the mould growing in the corner of my bathroom’.

He wasn’t even trying to skirt around the issue, although Shanks doubted it would have made the conversation any more bearable for either of them if he had. And it was very much a challenge, if not ostensibly offered as such, his fists curled at his sides and no weapon in sight.

And he’d always relished in friendly competition, the good-natured rivalry that had honed his skills and his friendships alike. But he wasn’t one for jealousy, and he was too old for _this_ kind of rivalry, unasked for as it was, and by the woman at its heart least of all.

There was part of him that was tempted to ask if he wouldn’t prefer they duel, but he had a feeling his humour would fall on deaf ears. Tragic as that fact was.

“Astute observation,” Shanks said, because he honestly couldn’t help himself. But there was no ill feeling behind the remark, although his voice held a wary tinge. “What tipped you off? The pirate ship docked with the dinghies in the port?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze veered to the side, Shanks saw — first to the scars on his face, then lower, to the tied-up shirtsleeve. He’d forgone the cloak, but his missing arm was hardly news to these people, most of which had been present the day he’d lost it. And he was hardly self-conscious about it. He'd never had any reason to be, although sometimes it took a while for people to adjust, and after ten years he was used to accommodating for the initial awkwardness.

Except there wasn’t anything awkward about this man’s reaction. And okay, maybe there was a perverse sort of pleasure in watching those smooth features contort with distaste — and disbelief.

“Had a good look?” Shanks asked then, cheerfully. “I could turn around if you want. Give you a twirl. Make sure you didn’t miss anything.”

His humour had precious little effect, as he’d already predicted. And he had a fair idea of what might come out of his adversary’s mouth, even before he said, “She deserves better than you.”

“Yeah,” Shanks said, smile still in place, although it was a harder thing now. “There we’re in agreement. But the lady makes her own decisions, alas.”

“Does she?”

He was careful not to let his smile drop. “I don’t think I know what you’re implying,” Shanks said. “Although I have a feeling I won’t like it.” And, gaze hardening, “I didn’t put a leash on her when I left, you know. If she turned you down, that was her choice.”

“So you’re saying she felt no obligation to wait?” Smooth Face asked. He had his arms crossed over his chest now, a clearly defensive pose. Shanks tried to remember his name. Something with a T?

“Unlike some people,” Shanks said carefully, “I don’t presume to know what she thinks and feels.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Her face was far too open to hide her feelings, and she made no secret of them, but he wasn’t really keen on discussing that aspect of her personality with a man who looked at him as though his existence was a living insult. Which, given the circumstances, probably wasn’t far from the mark.

“Maybe that’s because you don’t know her as well as you think.”

Despite the fact that he knew better — and that he really was too old to rise to this kind of blatant provocation — that remark sparked a reaction. And Shanks didn’t know if he should laugh at how ridiculous the whole thing was, one grown man baiting another with someone whose affections had never been in doubt.

And he might not be a jealous man, but he felt the stirrings of something now — some curiously youthful impulse, to snap back.

Shanks was inclined to tell him that _he_ obviously didn’t know her — that he hadn’t even glimpsed the surface of that stubborn heart if he thought she was so easily swayed as that. Of course, he’d already gathered that much; that whatever affections this man boasted, he held his own feelings dearer than Makino’s.

“Did you ever stop to think that she might have been scared you’d be angry, if you came back and saw she’d found someone else?” Something-with-a-T asked then.

Shanks blinked. And for a moment the sheer absurdity of the question rendered him incapable of locating a comeback, because the notion that she should fear his reaction to anything was so inconceivable, he couldn’t even picture it.

“I’m thinking that by ‘someone else’ you have someone very specific in mind,” Shanks mused dryly, mindful to keep his tone light, even as he felt irritation plucking at his nerves.

“It wasn’t fair to her,” Something-with-a-T said, breezing right past the insinuation, although Shanks caught the way his featured tightened. “Asking her to put her life on hold.”

Shanks sighed. “You really like making assumptions, don’t you?”

“Do you deny that it’s a groundless one?”

“Ye—eah,” Shanks said, dragging out the syllable, and making no point of tempering his wariness now as he observed the man in front of him. He didn’t think he’d resort to violence, but he wouldn’t put it past him. He’d seen his share of foolhardy rookies pushed beyond reason by the demands of the sea. He suspected the demands of the heart weren’t all that different.

“I didn’t ask her to wait,” Shanks said then. He didn’t owe him an explanation, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be getting out of this conversation without one. “She made that choice for herself. If she’d wanted to settle down with _someone else_ , she would have.”

He bristled at that, and Shanks knew he’d struck a nerve, if only by offering the truth. Although in some cases, that was often the most merciless blow.

Then, smooth features hardening, the kind of look that in a sword fight was usually followed by a last-ditch, desperate attempt to draw blood, “Maybe you underestimate the hold you have on her,” he said. “Or maybe she just doesn’t know better.”

_Okay, kid. Last drop._

“Listen,” Shanks said, amicable expression chucked now without a second thought. And there was something curiously familiar about the scene, the village and the street, but his irritation left little room for irony now. “Insult me if you want. Yeah, so I only have one arm. I’ve got a whole ledger full of jibes related to that if you want to borrow it. And yeah, I might not look like much. You don’t get these scars from fishing and farming. So eat your heart out. I won’t lift a finger.”

Then, his expression darkening, “But one bad word about _her_ ,” Shanks said, and let some of his haki slip — just enough to make an impression, and he watched with a twinge of satisfaction as the man took a step back, suddenly alert. It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but Shanks suspected this was more effective; knew that his presence compelled notice for a reason. “And you’ll see just what kind of pirate you’re dealing with.”

He’d reined it back in with his next breath, the action requiring less than half a thought, but he watched as Smooth Face staggered forward a step, catching himself just before he was sent sprawling in the dirt.

Shanks watched him calmly, not smiling now, only a single brow raised, as though to say _still want to have a go at it?_

He received no verbal response, or any further remarks as he staggered back, before he turned on his heel, disappearing down the street without a backwards glance.

And _maybe_ it had been overkill. Ben would probably have told him that much, and that he was too old for theatrical demonstrations of power. And he wouldn’t, usually. Not unless prompted by necessity. An exceedingly strong opponent constituted as a necessity, but smooth-faced sailor boys? Not so much.

Still. He couldn’t deny that it hadn’t been a little satisfying.

He turned then, intent on walking back to Party’s, to alleviate the weight on his shoulders a bit, only to find the mayor watching from under the awning of his house.

Shanks stopped, taking in that drawn face, familiar disapproval etched into his worn features. He’d sensed his approach earlier, although he had no idea what to expect now that he was faced with it.

“What?” Shanks asked, allowing the corner of his mouth to lift, expression slipping into familiar self-deprecation like a favourite shirt. “Want to offer your misgivings, too? Go ahead. I’m here all night.”

To his surprise, Woop Slap snorted, the sound an old, derisive thing. “You went easy on him.”

Shanks blinked, and Woop Slap shrugged, as though in answer. “I never liked that one.”

“If I remember right, you never liked _me_ ,” Shanks pointed out.

That sparked a familiar glare, but there was something else sitting beneath it this time. “You’re a pirate,” the mayor said, as though it was the answer to everything.

“A lot of people are telling me that today,” Shanks mused.

Woop Slap gave him a look. “That boy,” he said then, with a nod in the direction he’d taken off. “She could do better. She knew that. Shame he didn’t, but that’s not Ma-chan’s fault.”

Shanks didn’t know why he was asking, like a teenager seeking permission. “And me?”

Woop Slap looked at him for a long moment, eyes cutting with a scrutiny that made Shanks suddenly think of Rayleigh, arms crossed over his chest and a quiet demand to know who’d gotten into the larder.

Then, hard features yielding a fraction, “I trust Makino’s judgement,” Woop Slap said, the utterance deceptively simple, given that it carried a whole world of implications, and for a moment all Shanks could do was stare.

“You gonna settle down at some point?” Woop Slap asked then, one brow raised. “That girl’s waited long enough.”

He felt the weight of the books under his arm. Just a sample from a decade of collecting, small efforts over long years to cultivate a future, and he’d never once shied away from the fact.

And so, “Yeah,” Shanks said. “That was the plan.”

“But not yet.”

“No,” he agreed. And he didn’t mention all the things that sat, unspoken in that utterance. The New World and all its wilful tides. The World Government. _Teach_. “Not yet.”

But Woop Slap only nodded, and Shanks had the sudden impression that he understood, if not the reasons themselves, then the simple fact that they existed.

“You’re getting married,” he said then, and before Shanks could puzzle out the feelings behind that remark, Woop Slap added, “A girl should have a father present. Tradition and all that.” Then, dryly, “Unfortunately, I doubt Garp would be up to the task.”

Shanks smiled. “I’m inclined to agree with you on that one.”

“I’ll do it, if she wants,” Woop Slap said then, and Shanks’ brows raised slightly. The mayor shrugged. “Just a suggestion, mind you. It’s up to her.” His mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Sails her own sea, that one. Always has.”

Shanks laughed. “That she does.” But his smile eased across his face, no need for him to feign it now as he said, honestly, “I’ll tell her you offered.”

Woop Slap nodded, and without another word, retreated beneath the awning, leaving Shanks standing in the empty street.

Shifting his grip on the satchel, thoughts lingering on the strange encounters, he made for the tavern, mindful that he’d been gone a long time and suddenly reluctant to keep her waiting, even just a few minutes.

He heard her humming before he cleared the porch, and stepping through the bat-wing doors it was to find her cleaning up, moving between the tables as she wiped them down. She’d tugged her blouse loose at the neck and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, and for a moment all he did was look at her.

Noticing his arrival, she lifted her gaze, and Shanks watched as a smile alighted in her eyes at the sight of him.

“There you are,” Makino said, reaching up to push an errant lock of hair back into her kerchief. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared off to.”

There was a light sheen of perspiration across her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed — the way she looked after a busy night, dark eyes bright and pleased. He wondered how long it had been since she’d had so many people to contend with.

He didn’t have to wonder if she’d missed it. It was evident in the smile that sat so comfortably on her face, reaching all the way to the corners of her eyes.

The same smile that fell a moment later, and he saw her brows furrow as she watched him deposit the stack of books on the nearest table. And it was testament to the depth of her worry that she barely glanced at it before she turned her eyes back to his.

“Shanks,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

He considered for a moment whether or not he should tell her. She wasn’t the type to just shrug something like this off — didn’t like being the cause of someone else’s distress, however much she hadn’t asked to be. But he didn’t want to lie, and anyway, going by the look on her face Shanks doubted he could have gotten away with it if he’d tried.

“I had a chat with your friend from this morning,” he said at length. “Sailor guy. Name’s something with a T.”

Her face contorted, but she didn’t bother to correct him on the name. Somehow, that proved curiously gratifying.

“Why do I have the feeling I won’t like what’s coming?” Makino asked, her tone wary, and tinged with something that hinted at exasperation. And not the fond sort that was usually directed at him, Shanks noted.

He smiled. “No harm done. He just had some thoughts to share.”

Her mouth pursed. “Shanks.”

His sigh was wrapped in a laugh. “He had some concerns,” he said then. “About your judgement.” He didn’t elaborate any further, but figured she could imagine well enough what had been said.

The sigh pushed past her teeth was a sharp thing. “I can’t believe him.”

“Can’t really blame him, though,” Shanks said, leaning back against the table. “In his eyes, he lost his chance. I’ve seen braver men lose their heads over less. Figuratively speaking, of course. Well—there was one other instance, but I’ll spare you the gory details.”

To his disappointment, her mouth didn’t so much as twitch at his attempted levity. Instead she only looked at him, arms crossed over her chest now, and the cut of her gaze oddly searching. And for once Shanks found that he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

Then, before he could open his mouth to speak, “If you’d come back and I was set to marry someone else, what would you have done?” Makino asked.

He was surprised at how much the mere mention stung, but he didn’t shy away from the thought when she offered it up for inspection. Instead, watching her now, Shanks allowed himself to consider the prospect in full — another man in her life, and affection that was more than just one-sided. Her open face, lovely features he’d spent a decade trying to remember, drawn tight with apology, and her voice gentle and damning—

_Ten years is a long time, Shanks._

“I would have gotten absolutely shitfaced,” he said, a wry smile tugging his mouth upwards, but little of his real humour in the gesture. “The drunkest I’ve ever been, probably. And not in a good way.”

He caught the flicker of something bright and pained passing across her features, and the way her hands tightened where she’d tucked them into her elbows. “But you would have walked away.”

“It would have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Maybe,” Makino said. “But that’s not the point. You would still have let me do it.”

“If you were _happy_ , yeah.”

“Exactly.”

He blinked as the word came to settle with deliberate weight, and when he looked at her the determined slant to her brow left no room for argument.

And with his smile loosening, he let the former image go — replaced it with another, of when she’d come running towards him, her hair coming loose and barely a moment to catch his breath before he’d had to catch her.

“I’ll talk to him,” Makino said then, stepping closer, her voice gentle but firm. And her irritation was brighter than her apology, Shanks saw, and was strangely glad of the fact. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

He smiled. “It’s been a while since someone came to challenge me,” he mused. “And it’s not usually that personal. Most of them calm down once I hand them a drink, but I don’t think it would have worked this time.”

He watched her eyes crinkling, his attempted humour sparking a familiar reaction this time, he was glad to see. “You mean you don’t cross swords over every minor offence?” Makino asked. “Careful, or you’ll put a dent in my image of the glorious pirate life.”

Shanks raised a brow. “I think I’ve put so many dents in that image its own mother wouldn’t recognise it. But thank you for pretending that you’re not completely disillusioned.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Not completely.”

“Oh no? What if I told you that I’ve never actually made anyone walk the plank?”

“Scandalous,” she hummed. “Next you’ll tell me that you don’t have a talking parrot, and a girl in every port.”

He knew it was meant in jest — that it was an old joke between them, but today had brought a lot of things to the surface, after the waters had settled in the wake of his return.

And so, “No parrot,” Shanks agreed, reaching up to touch the tip of her nose. “And only one girl.”

Her look softened, and it might be redundant at this point, but that had never stopped him. “It’s only been you,” he said, touching his fingers to her cheek, wry smile lifting in earnest now. “From the day I first walked through that door and you told me to get out of it.”

Tilting her head, she kissed his fingers, before reaching up to curl her own around them, drawing his hand down until she held it, cradled in front of her. “Fool man,” she said, fondly. “I already knew that.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to say it.” He looked at their hands, the soft palms wrapped around the scars on his fingers. Small testaments to a seafaring life, and a land-bound one. “I’m guessing he’s not the first one to tell you otherwise.”

When he looked up, her expression was thoughtful. “No,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I ever believed them.”

“No?”

She pursed her lips lightly. And she wasn’t going to try and lie her way out of this, Shanks could tell, even before she admitted, “Some days…it was easier to brush it off than others.” Her brow furrowed, and she dropped her eyes. “Distance does funny things to your head.”

That he could agree with, even if he didn’t say it out loud. But an understanding was implied, like so many other things between them. It was one of the things he’d never stop marvelling at — the fact that they were so different, careers and personalities, but when she looked at him he never felt more himself, or happier to be so.

“But,” Makino said then, gaze fixed on their hands now. And whatever she meant to say, she seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, and for a moment Shanks wondered what it could be, before she added, quietly, “I wouldn’t have held it against you, if you’d had others.” She shrugged, the gesture stiff and awkward. “Ten years is a long time.”

And it wasn’t a lie — as open to him as it had been ten years ago, her face didn’t allow for untruths to settle with ease, but he saw from the press of her mouth alone that it would have hurt her, and she made no point of trying to hide that, either.

Turning his hand, he closed his fingers over hers, and when she lifted her eyes he met them with a smile.

“Fidelity is a curious thing,” he murmured. “The hardest form of loyalty, out on the sea. Or so I’ve heard.” He’d been a captain almost twenty years, and he’d never once questioned the loyalty of his crew. And yet there were men under his command with wives and husbands waiting, Shanks knew. Men who had vices other than drink.

“Was it hard for you?” Makino asked, and he heard from the tone of her voice that she was torn about whether or not she wanted to know the answer.

His smile quirked. “Not as hard as you’re no doubt imagining, going by the look on your face,” he said.

She said nothing, although he had the distinct impression that she was pleased, before a strange look settled over her features, a half-expectant thing, and Shanks blinked. “What?”

Her smile creased, small and clever. “I was waiting for you to say ‘that’s not the only thing that’s been hard’, but you disappoint.” She tilted her head, brow furrowing in feigned bemusement. “I don’t know what to feel about that. I expected more from you.”

He threw his head back, the howl of laughter loud enough to make her jump, but he couldn’t have held it back if he’d tried. And when he looked at her next, her smile sat easier on her face.

“Well you’re not _wrong_ ,” Shanks said, grin as wide as his own face would allow, and his laughter lighter now, softened with awe. “The things you say sometimes, I swear.” He shook his head. “Did I tell you how much I’ve missed you?”

She hummed. “Never hurts repeating,” she said, before her smile fell. “You really didn’t miss it, then?” She stumbled a bit over the words, “More, ah—intimate things.”

“You mean sex?”

The look she gave him told him how much she appreciated his cheek, but the effect was dampened somewhat by the fierce blush that had spread across her collar. “You know what I mean.”

“But it’s so much fun pretending that I don’t,” Shanks said, grinning. “Sex in general, though?” he asked, when his attempted humour didn’t succeed in chasing the doubt off her face. “Not really.”

Then, and before she could offer a dubious protest, his smile curving with a wicked edge, “Sex with _you_ , now…”

He was always surprised by how red her cheeks could get, and the discovery was always a delightful one. But for all her sensibilities, the smile that had taken up residence on her face was far too pleased for chastity, and he felt warmth coiling in his gut at the sight.

“A warm body is only that,” Shanks said then, making her eyes lift back to his. “And at one time in my life, that was enough. I didn’t need anything else.” He squeezed her fingers, and his smile was far from wicked now when he added, “But you changed a lot of things.”

The thought struck him that this would have been a good moment to propose, if he’d planned it better. But Ben was right; he wasn’t the type who could wait. A perplexing paradox given the past ten years, maybe, but when he looked at Makino now, nothing had ever made more sense.

“You told me that waiting wasn’t hard because you just missed having someone,” he reminded her then. “This isn’t any different. I didn’t want just a warm body.” He ran his thumb across her knuckles, mapping the slender bones under her skin, the gesture keenly significant.

“And anyway, I still have one hand left,” he quipped, raising his brows meaningfully. “I’ve managed.”

Makino blinked, before realisation struck, and the laugh that blurted from her was so genuinely startled it escaped with an unflattering snort, and she pulled her hands free to slap his shoulder. But her scolding was half-hearted, and when he gave her an entirely suggestive grin she only laughed harder.

And it had always been a tough choice, deciding which was the most gratifying — making her laugh like that or making her come. With someone who demonstrated their every feeling so earnestly, pleasure as easily as joy, it was impossible to choose. But watching her now, dabbing tears of mirth from her eyes, Shanks found it didn’t really matter which it was, so long that he was allowed to be the reason.

“And you, my girl?” he asked then, when her laughter had subsided, his tone musing. “How have you managed on your own?”

Tears still clinging to her lashes, the colour in her cheeks was a softer thing now, but still entirely telling. And clearing her throat, “I have an, er—active imagination,” Makino told him, but didn’t drop her gaze when she said it, and Shanks wondered if his grin looked as stupid as it felt.

He kissed his laughter over her knuckles. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said. And watching her from over the gentle arch of her fine-boned fingers, her cheeks flushed and a sheen of sweat still clinging to her brow, the image was an instantaneous thing, of her skirt rucked up and her hips tilted as she touched herself, those lovely little fingers seeking release, slick with her own heat as she rubbed herself plump and dripping, before pushing them inside her, as deep as they'd get, thinking of him, his name begged with that little whimper he loved, offered to the quiet of her bedroom—or the storeroom, maybe.

If she noticed the shift in his breathing, she didn’t let on, but he followed the image where it took him, to the heels of a quiet night, no customers and little for her to clean up. An old memory of him spurring her on, or maybe something else entirely.

“Was I wearing a velvet waistcoat?” he asked then, and was delighted when her cheeks darkened. “I _was_ , wasn’t I?”

“Oh—stop smiling like that!”

His grin stretched along her hand, but she didn’t pull it out of his hold. “Like what?”

“Like you’re imagining it!”

“What—myself in a velvet waistcoat? Or you getting yourself off while imagining me in a velvet waistcoat? Because I find the last one vastly more intriguing.”

“ _Shanks_.”

“Was I a lord in this scenario?”

“I don’t have to take this,” Makino huffed, but when she made to tug her hand loose of his he pulled her back, and even the stubborn press of her mouth wasn’t enough to hold back her laughter as she fell against him.

“I could get a velvet waistcoat,” he murmured against her lips, and felt the nip of her teeth, a gentle reprimand.

“You mock.”

“No mockery,” he said, between kisses. “I’m entirely in earnest. I can be very lord-ly. I’ll even learn how to do a really fancy flourish with my sword.” He paused then. “And I do mean my _actual_ sword when I say that,” he added. “Unless you’re intrigued by the other. Don’t think I haven’t seen where your eyes go when I drop my pants.”

She laughed, and he felt it where she was pressed against him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Mm, yes. If you’re hoping for that to change, I’ll have to disappoint you.”

Small hands cupped his face, and she pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. Then, pulling back to meet his eyes, “I’d be disappointed if it did,” Makino said.

His smile lifted, a deceptively small thing, for all the feeling it held. “Yeah?”

All she did was smile, but it was answer enough. But because he couldn’t help it, “You know,” Shanks said. “I’m not hearing a rejection to the waistcoat idea.”

Makino sighed, and turned her eyes to the ceiling. “Something tells me there’ll be no living with you after this.”

His grin turned crooked. “Well, we’re not married yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still time to back out.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Ah, the words every future husband wants to hear.”

She grinned, and when she tilted her head towards him, the suggestion clear, her eyes were bright with teasing. And in the hold of that adoring look the long day faded to an afterthought, settling amidst the quiet of the empty common room, leaving no mark.

He kissed her then, long and hard — dipped his hand into her hair, her braid coming loose around his fingers and her kerchief slipping, and her reciprocation was a thing of quiet yielding, even as he felt the insistent slant of her mouth, and her small hands around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Drawing back, he hid his grin under her jaw. “So what colour waistcoat—”

She smothered the rest of the question with another kiss, along with his protest — the teasing quip that it wasn’t much of an answer — until all that was left was his laughter, and even her determination couldn’t smother that.

Although with the smile he felt so keenly under his own, Shanks doubted she was trying.

 

—

 

The day of their wedding dawned with grey skies and a shower of rain, rich, earthly smells blending with the salt carried on the sea breeze. A fitting union of worlds, Shanks thought, listening to the raindrops wetting the windowsill and watching the rise and fall of her chest as Makino slept, her mouth parted slightly where she lay on her back beside him.

His own sleep eluding him, he lay awake as the sky opened its heart to the earth, the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance the only sound disrupting the quiet. And when the grey dark had yielded enough to ease the shadows from the far corners of the room, Makino stirred to the touch of his fingers, her eyes heavy with sleep but crinkling at the sight of him.

It was later than usual for her, but there was no rush to her movements as she stretched, a languid grace of tired limbs, the bar closed for the day and no obligations waiting but their own, private ones.

“Have you been awake long?” she murmured, hiding a yawn behind her hand as she rolled over onto her side to face him, leaning into his bigger frame with a tired little hum.

Shanks smiled, momentarily distracted by the way her nightdress had climbed over her hips. “Not long.”

Makino looked up at him, brow furrowing as sleep slowly relented its grip. And, “Liar,” she said then, the word curious rather than condemning, although there was a note of worry in her voice when she asked, “What’s keeping you awake?”

“Am I that obvious, or are you getting disconcertingly perceptive?”

She reached up to flick his nose fondly. “I know you,” she said simply, fingertips lingering by his cheek, following the deep grooves of the scars. “And you’re the heaviest sleeper I’ve ever met.”

Shanks raised a brow. “The heaviest sleeper you’ve shared a bed with, you mean.”

She pinched his nose shut for that, and failed to draw her hand back when he reached for it, only to press a grinning kiss to the soft inside of her wrist. “The only sleeper I’ve shared a bed with,” Makino reminded him pertly.

He smiled against her wrist, where her pulse leaped to meet him. “So you don’t really have anything to compare it with.”

“Ben said you once slept through a naval battle. In the middle of a storm.”

“Ben tells you far too many things,” Shanks sighed.

“Did you, though?”

Nose tucked into her palm, Shanks smiled. “In my defence, I was spectacularly hungover at the time.”

Her eyes held far too much understanding. “And now?”

He didn’t answer, focused on the soft rhythm of her pulse. Outside, the rain kept up its relentless onslaught. Not unlike the freak showers that was par for the course in the New World, but here there were no creaking timbers protesting the ocean’s assault, and no deck pitching under his feet. Instead there was solid ground, and the equally solid shape of her beside him. That other part of his life seemed suddenly far away, and yet—

“Shanks,” Makino said, gently. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Shanks looked at her, watching him from across the pillow, and tried to reconcile the image of her with the word sitting in his mind, and all it implied.

 _Wife_. And it was more than just a girl in a port, even if the girl herself had always been more than that. But like the rain outside, the full weight of the decision was bearing down on him now, along with the thoughts that had greeted him upon waking, and that kept him awake since — of what it would mean for her to be that. Her, and her quiet, land-bound life.

“You’re marrying me today,” he said, after a lull had passed and he’d dragged his thoughts back from the sea he’d left, and that he would need to return to, sooner or later.

Makino didn’t miss a beat. “Is that today?” she asked, teasing smile lifting. “I knew there was something.”

The smile he gave her was a crooked thing. “Good thing I’m here to remind you. It wouldn’t be much of a wedding with only me present.”

“You’d manage somehow,” Makino countered smoothly. “Didn’t you once call yourself a ‘one-man party’?”

His laughter fell, bright with surprise, and his smile lost its crooked lilt. “Do you remember everything I say? You’re worse than Ben!”

Her eyes twinkled. “It’s a gift.”

“I don’t know if I like it.”

Makino smiled, and he felt her hand cupping his cheek, her expression suddenly too earnest for teasing. “I hope you know that I’m excited about this,” she said. “About you.”

If he didn’t know her as well as he did, Shanks might have been tempted to tell her it wasn’t himself he questioned, but like his earlier statement, hers implied more than its simplicity suggested.

Because his way of life had always been part of him, and she’d always known that — that she wasn’t just marrying the man, but the pirate. And she would no doubt have told him so, but he found it in the way she was looking at him, wearing an expression that all but dared him to contradict her.

The predictably stubborn response eased his heart a bit, and so, “There’s been a few signs,” Shanks said mildly. “The fact that you said ‘yes’ to my proposal is probably a strong indication that there’s some interest there.”

“Probably,” she hummed, a fond smile half-hidden into the pillow. And she didn’t tell him not to worry, or that there was nothing to worry about. Instead her acceptance was offered in spite of both, and watching her now, the swell of warmth in his chest almost too much to endure, Shanks wondered if he’d ever grow used to it — to be loved by a heart like that, in all its gentle obstinacy.

“What about you?” Makino asked then. “Having cold feet yet?”

“If I say yes, will you make me wear socks in my sandals?”

She shoved the pillow in his face before his grin had the chance to stretch across it, muffling his laughter, but when she drew it back her own was refusing to be stifled. And there was a curious light behind her eyes now, clear of sleep and bright with something he recognised — and intimately at that.

“Wait—I know that look,” Shanks said, laughter soft and curious.

Her smile turning suddenly mischievous, he was given little warning before she’d rolled him over onto his back, soft lips seeking familiar spots and a cheeky murmur of _returning the favour_ kissed against his stomach, then lower still, following the sharp contour of his hipbone with gentle nips, her intent clear, and his chuckle was rough when it shuddered out of him.

“Was it the socks that did it?” he asked, as the grip of those small hands tightened on his hips. He felt her keenly, every little movement as she got comfortable, the silk of her nightdress and her bare skin, and the deliberate brush of her thumbs along his abdomen, sweeping low. “I should keep that in m—”

She’d wrapped her mouth around his cock before he could finish, and his laughter lodged with a strangled groan in his throat.

If he’d had a mind to offer a cheeky remark about her methods for shutting him up Shanks would have, but coherent thought felt beyond him under the grip of those clever little fingers, and her tiny shape kneeling between his legs, her lips around his erection as she took him deep, slowly and deliberately as she adjusted to his size. Her touches were teasingly gentle as she lightly skimmed her fingers down his length, knowing what it would take to coax him to the edge and keep him there, and he heard the little sigh that left her as he arched his back with a groan, seeming pleased by his display of inarticulate pleasure.

Shit, he was already close. Half-delirious with the thought, Shanks blinked his eyes open to look at her. And with her back curved and her hair falling loose about her shoulders like that, his cock in her mouth and the pert bow of her lips pursing as her eyes flicked up to catch his, hooded and dark, the sight of her alone was almost enough to do it.

He tried to hold back, and the harsh breath that ripped from him made her smile curl delicately, seeming too demure for what she was doing, holding his gaze as she sucked his cock, the length large and slick in her little mouth and her perfect lips gleaming, wet from his arousal where she licked it off the tip of his head, before she began to slowly take the whole of him in and out, and without dropping her eyes from his, the little suckling sounds accompanied with the softly keening pant of her breath.

"Fuck, _Makino_." His voice sounded guttural, and he could barely muster the words, so close now he was rapidly losing his grip on himself.

She shifted a bit in her seat, that unbearably silky mouth hot and wet as she took his cock deeper, almost to the hilt, and, “I hope— _shit_ , I hope you realise I won’t be able to walk after this,” Shanks laughed around a groan as she took him whole again, feeling how he filled her. “Good luck getting me down the aisle. Deck. Whichever it—”

Her grip tightening around his base as she pulled him out a bit, “You’re still _talking_ just fine,” came her muffled rebuke, the deliberate enunciation of the words around him prompting his laughter again, a winded, helpless thing. And if he’d had a comeback to that he lost it — had no voice left to speak when she bent forward, the drag of her tongue around his head painfully slow before she rubbed it gently over the slit at the top, and the groan that left him begged for her, even as he felt he couldn't take any more. But she didn't stop as she sucked him gently, taking him in her mouth again and again, deep down her throat, and the purring _hum_ that rose from her short-circuited his brain.

He came with a jerk, all the muscles in his body pulled bowstring-tight before the release let him go, his head thrown back with a gasp as he climaxed, bucking his hips as he spilled into her mouth, but she didn't pull back, welcoming it instead, her strokes slow and coaxing as he shuddered himself empty.

Her name rose from deep within him, only to dissolve in a breath, and in response Makino drew back, wiping her mouth and her chin of him before she ducked her head and kissed her smile to the still-taut muscles of his stomach.

“Sleep,” came the tender order, her voice sounding far away. Shanks felt her moving, her bare skin soft against his as she climbed across his hips, her fingertips brushing along his thigh and up his chest. Bending down, she kissed his mouth deeply, the taste of him on her lips as she murmured into his, “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Was this your plan all along?” he asked, tone attempting to be musing, although his voice sounded hoarse, and speaking the words felt like it required more effort than he had strength to give. “Cunning little thing, you are.”

A kiss to his sternum, lingering. He felt the soft curves of her body where she straddled him, the wet heat between her legs almost begging his fingers, so ready she was fairly dripping, but even as he wanted to reach for her, he could feel himself being pulled down. “ _Sleep_ , Shanks.”

Utterly spent, he had no rebuttal to offer as he fell back asleep, dragged under like driftwood in a strong current, and when he resurfaced the rain had yielded to a soft drizzle, the clouds letting slip a pale sliver of sunlight into Makino’s bedroom, reaching across the rumpled sheets towards the smoother fabric of her skin where she sat, naked on the chair before the vanity.

Feeling heavy and sated, he watched her from the bed, braiding her hair with flowers, gaze torn between the quick movements of her fingers and the slope of her naked back. She’d coiled her braid into a low bun at the base of her neck, a few tendrils coming loose, and the white petals were stark against the dark, bottle-green colour of her hair. From her nape, they climbed upwards, along two smaller braids woven tightly to the base of her skull, to circle the crown of her head.

Makino raised her gaze to the mirror to find him watching, bemused smile lifting at the sight. “What?”

“Your favourite novel,” Shanks said, voice rough from sleep. “The heroine. She wears flowers in her hair, when she marries her first husband. The one she married for love.”

He watched her flush. “A happy coincidence.”

He grinned. “Sure it is.”

Her laugh was light, if tinged with familiar embarrassment, but when she met his gaze in the mirror her expression was decidedly pleased. “How do you even remember that?”

Shanks shrugged. “I’ve read it. The image stuck.”

She turned in her seat, her hands pausing what they were doing, and he allowed his eyes to take her in where she sat, her perfect little body bared to him, lingering on her pert breasts and the dark curls between her thighs where she'd pulled one leg up on the chair. Lifting them back to hers, he found a small furrow between her brows, the kind that meant she was trying to puzzle something out.

Then, “You’ve read it more than once, haven’t you?” Makino asked, brows lifting with the delight of a new discovery.

Shanks raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Maybe,” he said. Then, turning his head to look at her, “Maybe it reminded me of you.”

She let her hands fall, and he stole a moment to watch a whole array of emotions play across her features, before she settled on something that was almost painfully fond.

“You should be careful saying things like that,” she said then, voice thick with laughter and something far more tender. “I’ve spent an hour on this, but I’m tempted to start over.”

Shanks grinned, pushing himself up and off the mattress. And the appreciative sweep of her gaze across his naked body didn’t slip his notice, or the way her skin flushed pink when he made his way over to where she sat, his cock hard from the sight of her and making no apologies about it.

Sketching a kiss to her brow, “I won’t spoil your hard work,” he said, touching a fingertip to a loose lock of hair falling against her neck. “Not yet, anyway.”

Makino laughed. “But after the ceremony, all bets are off?”

His hum held fond amusement, but it was with deliberate care that he tucked the tendril of hair back into the confines of her braid. When he spoke his voice was a low rumble, and he saw the effect in the goosebumps that rose on her skin. “If memory serves, my girl, you’re the one with a proclivity for hair-pulling.”

But as he said the words, an idea struck — and it had to show on his face, Shanks knew, because Makino’s smile turned suddenly curious. “What’s that look?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, gaze holding hers, he kneeled down before her, and watched as realisation alighted across her face, her breath catching with it, and — “Oh,” Makino said, the word little more than a murmur. But there was anticipation in her expression, and when he ran his fingers up her leg, Shanks felt the way she shifted in her seat, parting her knees as she raised her hips towards him, the action keenly welcoming.

He wasted no time, fingers releasing her knee as he reached to part her soft folds, finding her already damp and ready, and allowed her to hear the appreciative groan that shook loose of him as he bent his head to lick her, a quick, teasing lap of his tongue seeking the slippery silk of her sex, the very tip of it prodding her clit gently, and he felt her hand in his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt, even as a faint mewl slipped past her lips, so quiet he almost didn’t catch it.

“So modest today,” Shanks laughed, the low chuckle ghosting against her, and he felt her grip on his hair tighten, as though in response.

“I’m not— _ah_ ,” she moaned as he licked her again, a little firmer this time, making her jerk in her seat, and he felt the tremor of it where it shuddered through her, along with a breath, “—being so on _purpose_.”

“No?”

“Sh—” but the rest of his name was lost in the sound that swallowed it whole as he lapped at her again, feeling how she soaked under his tongue, dripping wet now, the plump softness of her sex inviting him to eat her out without mercy, but he deliberately kept his touches light, withholding what she wanted as he nudged her closer and closer to the edge.

" _Shanks_ ," she managed this time. He felt her grasp the back of the chair for purchase, her hips pushed against his mouth as she tried to move with him, an attempt to regain some control, or to make him take her harder.

Her impatience had his smile stretching, prompting a shiver as he stopped, and purred, “In a hurry?”

He heard how her breath rushed out, like she'd been holding it. Her voice was tight when she spoke, "No." Then with a sigh, trickling off her tongue with a plea, "Go slower."

"You sure?"

She'd closed her eyes, and her breath came heavier now. Her nod looked like it took effort. "Please."

"Please...?"

A breath, and he saw how her skin flushed, embarrassed, but he still heard her murmur, "I want you to take me slowly."

Obliging, he parted his mouth over her clit, before closing it in a kiss, painfully gentle. He heard the little sound that caught at the back of her throat, and the flick of his eyes saw her fingers gripping the chair, knuckles bleeding white like the flowers in her hair as she parted her legs further, her damp curls gleaming with her own wetness where she writhed in her seat. He watched her reactions as he licked her, his tongue flitting across her sex, quick and light, and if the sight of her hadn't already made him rock hard, the soft, breathless whine that preceded her biting down on her bottom lip nearly finished the job.

But he made sure to take his time, like she'd asked, rough fingers teasing her entrance as he parted her folds further for better access, slowing his pace with his breath as he carefully worked his tongue along the seam of her sex, to gently rub the tip across her clit, again and again, until the sound in her chest had built towards a sob.

"Still want me to take it slow?"

"Please—" Her voice was a rasp, struggling off her tongue. Shanks smiled, and made a slow circle with his own, before stopping. He heard her whimper, the word small and pleading. " _Please."_

"Please what? Take it slower?" God, she was _drenched._  It took effort not to just push her back against the chair and take her until she screamed.

“You’re—enjoying this far too much,” Makino breathed around a moan, the last word escaping her with a half-sob as he licked her again, before stopping. She was perched on the very edge of the chair now, her legs parted for him where he kneeled before her, the heel of one foot braced on his shoulder and her head tipped back, a vision of unabashed pleasure and rapidly thinning self-restraint.

“There’s no such thing as 'too much' when it comes to enjoying you,” Shanks countered, punctuating the words with another flick of his tongue, harder this time, and she squirmed in her seat. He laughed, “Sit _still_.”

The quiet order made her breath hitch, and his smile widened, already intimately familiar with that particular weakness. He felt lightheaded with the sight of her, so ready for him she couldn't take it, and while there was a part of him that wanted to give her release, there was another that loved her this way; that wanted to tell her _no_ , and  _you'll come when I tell you to come._

When she didn’t stop squirming, Shanks paused, and heard the impatient sound that left her. “Sit still or I’ll make you say _aye, Captain,"_ he said, the playful remark edged with a genuine command, his voice firm where he dropped it an octave, and her breath caught with a small mewl.

She settled back in her seat, and another laugh rumbled out of him. “ _Good_ girl.”

The hand in his hair gave a warning tug. “Don’t mistake compliance for agreement, _Captain_ ,” Makino murmured, even as she pushed closer to his mouth. “Or you’ll find yourself subject to mutiny.”

He grinned, and knew she felt it by the slight jolt that raced through her. “So eager with the pirate metaphors today," he crooned, sucking at her gently, hearing how she begged for him, pliant under his attentions in a way that was utterly captivating. "I’m so proud.”

Before she could muster what would undoubtedly be a clever comeback, he was pushing a finger inside her, making her cry out with relief, her back arching against the chair as she tried to urge him deeper. Pulling out a bit, he added another, giving a harder thrust this time, and felt how she followed, meeting him as he shoved her back against the chair and fucked her with his fingers, rough where he plunged them into her soft heat and spurred by her little noises as he increased his pace, harder and harder, the slick sounds as he pounded into her loud in his ears, along with Makino's broken, half-choked whimpers.

But he wanted to taste her coming, and with his next thrust he'd pulled out of her, chased by a small, keening plea—"no, don't _stop_ "—but he didn't keep her waiting this time as he ducked his head, replacing his fingers with his tongue as he pushed it inside her, stuttering a startled gasp from her before she melted under his mouth.

He ate her out greedily, drunk off her dripping sex and her scent and her sounds, her legs wrapping around his neck, arching her hips towards his mouth as he took her again, this time with his tongue, licking her without stopping, faster and faster, her voice overtaking the wet, slippery sounds of his worship this time, the words stuttering out of her, whispered, murmured, sobbed — _please_ , and _Shanks_ , and  _don't stop, don't stop, don't **stop** —_

It didn’t take her long, the rapid pant of her breath marking her ascent as he licked her to completion, although Shanks had a feeling the added effect of having him kneeling before her helped, the playful push and pull of command and deference an easy thing between them. And although there was some of the former in the way she pushed back against his tongue, the loud whimper of his name that preceded her climax was unashamedly beseeching.

" _There's_ my girl," he murmured, the final nudge offered with a satisfied chuckle, before he hardened his voice, "Now _come."_

And with the sharp lash of the command,he felt how she shattered.

She came with a  _tug_ at his hair that he felt before the shudder that ripped through her, not a silent breaking this time, and the sound that escaped her banished the quiet for a single second, the lovely pitch of her voice raised with a rapture that dropped like an anchor into his gut as she climaxed, drenching his tongue and his beard.

He carried her back down, coaxing her with a murmur to her skin, to her centre, until she sank into the chair, spent and shaking. Her hand slackened its death-grip on his hair to fall against his shoulder, her legs trembling around his neck.

Smiling, Shanks kissed her sex, offering a last, teasing lick at her clit and chuckling when she jerked at the light pressure. And pulling back, he wiped his mouth, his beard dripping wet from her coming, but it did little to wipe the grin off his face, watching her where she sat, draped over the chair like she was a gentle nudge away from toppling out of her seat, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

Brushing a kiss to her knee, he extracted himself from between her legs, joints protesting the slight abuse as he rose to his feet, but it was a quickly forgotten discomfort, looking down on Makino to find her watching him.

Touching a fingertip to the coiled braid at the nape of her neck, “Not a hair out of place,” Shanks quipped, then blew his own out of his face. “Well. On your head, at least. I’m surprised you didn’t yank loose a handful when you came.” His smile turned cheeky. “I don’t care what Ben says—it won’t be grey hairs that’ll mark the death of my moniker, it’ll be _you_.”

She gave him a playful shove, but every line of her body spoke of contentment, small and lovely where she sat curled up on the chair. Her voice sounded thick and sated when she laughed. “Shameless man. Go get dressed.”

“I’m sensing an ‘or else’,” Shanks mused.

“ _Or else_ I’ll be tempted to do something indecent to you,” Makino sighed. “Again.”

His laugh pulled, unhindered from his chest. “If you keep this up, we’re never leaving this room. There won’t be a wedding. It'll just be us taking turns fucking each other's brains out. Which is usually the part that comes _after_ the wedding.”

She hummed, the sound seeming to reach deep within her. “The others will manage in our absence. There’s plenty of food and drink.”

He touched a delicate petal, snug between the silky locks of her hair. “And let all your hard work go to waste?” he asked. “And besides, if I’m having you for wife I’d like to do it right. _Then_ fuck your brains out.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Ben did seem excited to officiate. As excited as his face allows, anyhow.”

Shanks snorted. “I can’t believe I made him acting captain for the day. I’ll be hearing about this for _months_.”

“Hopefully,” Makino murmured, leaning into his touch. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

He felt suddenly short of breath, looking at her, unfathomably lovely where she sat, watching him. His knuckles sat in stark relief against her cheek, the pale, unmarred curve of it a reminder of the life he would come back to — the one he would vow to come back to, regardless of what awaited him the next time he returned to the New World.

“Something tells me I’ll remember this,” Shanks said, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, gently marvelling, and saw how his fingers shook. “Flowers in your hair.” Then, wry smile quirking as he looked down at himself, “Me, wearing no pants.”

She laughed, and gave him a shove towards the bathroom, covering her eyes when he wiggled his hips in retaliation. “Go put some on! You’re distracting me, parading around like that.”

He kissed her shoulder, nipping at her skin. “Bossy girl.”

“Mm. You better get used to it. In a few hours I’ll be your bossy wife.”

He grinned, good humour needing no prompting, but her own smoothed the edges, leaving it a gentler thing. And when he leaned down to kiss her brow she tilted her head to meet him, and he breathed in the scent of her, fresh flowers and soft skin—

“I can’t wait.”

 

—

 

The rain persisted well into the day, but the clouds had cleared by the time they spoke their vows, and left a blush of pink across the horizon and the quiet waters nudging against the ship’s hull.

Sea legs steady beneath him and Makino never far from reach, it was with a light heart that Shanks surveyed the course of his life — the decisions that had led up to this moment; a party under the setting sun, and a future in the petite shape who’d stood before him, his hand in both of hers and the gentler weight of her presence having fitted itself against his own, a queen’s grace in the slight lift of her chin, but no crown on her head save the flowers she’d woven into her hair with her own two hands.

“That’s the stupidest face I’ve ever seen you make,” Ben said, stepping up beside him to hand him a drink, and Shanks heard the soft _clink_ of his wedding band to the glass. Beyond the bow of the ship the evening sun sat suspended, a molten ball perched on the line of the horizon.

“And that’s saying something, given that I’ve known you almost twenty years,” Ben added, raising his glass to his lips.

Shanks only grinned. Across the deck, Makino was seated on the railing, her own drink cradled between her palms and a tipsy smile plastered on her face as she politely refrained from pointing out to Yasopp that she’d heard the actual events behind the story he was trying to pass off as his own. In her current state, her questionable balance would have given him pause, but every time she swayed slightly in her seat Shanks saw several hands jerk in response, as though ready to catch her from toppling over the side, a fact to which Makino seemed endearingly oblivious.

“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around it,” he said. “How do you even begin being worthy of someone like that?”

Ben gave him a look, and offered, dryly, “That ridiculous face is a good start.”

Shanks’ smile eased a bit. “She doesn’t ask for a lot.”

“She knows who you are,” Ben said, the simple fact offered without judgement. “God only knows why that hasn’t sent her running, but it’s the truth.”

“Don’t even try to pretend you’re not happy for me, you scheming old bag,” Shanks countered, and Ben only smiled.

“I’m really glad she didn’t marry a farmer,” Shanks said then, watching Makino. “Or a sailor. Or anyone else. Is that really selfish?”

Ben followed his gaze. “Maybe. But she doesn’t look like she’s upset with the current arrangement. Then again, she really doesn’t ask for much.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she did.”

Ben shook his head, smile lifting. “There you go.”

“What?”

The look he gave him now was knowing. “That’s how you go about being worthy of someone like that.” Then with a sigh, “I’m not even surprised I have to tell you. How you’ve made it this far on your own is beyond me.”

A lull passed wherein Shanks mulled over the words, before Ben said, “But speaking of sailors.” He lifted his glass to his lips. “That kid won’t be a problem.”

Shanks blinked, his own glass halfway to his lips. Then, eyes narrowing, “Ben Beckman,” he said. “What did you do?”

Ben’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “I gave him some advice.”

“Advice?”

“I suggested a change of scenery. Safer waters elsewhere.”

“Not at all intrusive or threatening,” Shanks mused.

“Lucky actually beat me to it,” Ben said. “Although to be fair, all he did was eat in front of the guy. Not exactly a threat.”

“Oh no? Have you _seen_ Lucky eat?”

When Ben only smiled, Shanks shook his head, but it was hard schooling his expression into anything that wasn’t a stupid grin.

“Meddling old men,” he sighed, raising his glass to his lips, smile stretching along the rim as he caught Makino’s look from across the deck. And tipping his head back, Shanks banished the very last thought he’d ever offer the subject of jealous sailors and would-be farmers, and rooted his feet firmly in the scene laid out before him now, with all its implications — flowers in her hair and her tipsy smile, and the open sea at her back invoking little of the longing it once had.

When the sun had set, leaving a dark coat of night across the sky, stars scattered along the horizon like the petals strewn across the deck of his ship, they moved the party into the galley. And it was under a familiar din of merriment that his new wife looked at him, and with an expression of mischievous delight, declared, “I’m a little drunk.”

The tilt of her head saw another flower coming loose of her braid, to land on the planks by her bare feet. “I think.”

Shanks grinned, and plucked another from her hair. “I think you’re more than just a little think. Drunk. A little _drunk_.” He blinked. “Wait.”

Her cheeks were bright with colour, although he didn’t think the drink was alone to blame for that, and was proven correct a moment later when a playful light kindled behind her eyes—

“I think it’s time to get you out of those hideous pants,” Makino announced, a little louder than strictly necessary, but the spluttering laugh that dragged from him was pleasantly surprised.

“ _Hid_ —”

“Trust me,” she said, patting his chest, before giving him a nudge in the direction of the door. “They’ll look better on the floor of your cabin—wait, why do you look so scandalised, Captain? I’m just doing a public service!”

“Hear!” Yasopp called from across the galley, glass raised, and Shanks watched Makino attempt a salute. Ben observed the spectacle with an expression of mounting amusement.

“Sex,” Makino declared loudly, and Shanks nearly choked on his tongue. “That’s part of the package, right? When you get married?” She hummed. “Package. I could make something of that. I— wait, give me a minute.” She looked at him, as though for assistance, but his words failed him.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” she said. Then, her smile brightening, “You’re good with your tongue.”

 _“Okay,_ I think that’s enough entertainment from the bride,” Shanks said, moving towards her, and bending at the knee, he hoisted her over his shoulder, startling a shriek of laughter from her and drawing a whole crew’s worth of grins their way as he strode towards the door, steps only a little uneven, despite the added weight across his back.

“Have a good night, gentlemen!” Makino called out across the room, to which she received a chorus of cheers. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, enunciating the words with care as Shanks pushed the door open with his hip. “But I think it’s my husband’s turn now,” she added, before bursting into a fit of giggles that had her collapsing against his shoulder, and Shanks nearly lost his footing.

Laughter having filled the galley to the brim, Yasopp raised his voice to call after them — “You’re going to be reminded of that one tomorrow, Makino!”

The door closed behind them before she could offer a response, their laughter muted and the night a sudden shock of quiet to his system. But Shanks felt Makino laughing all the way across the deck, the sound of it beckoning his own, and it took a surprising amount of focus just to remember where he was headed, with the soft curves wrapped around his shoulder.

“Are you lost, dear husband?” came her voice then, ripe with amusement, when he’d circled back around to the main deck.

“This is _my_ ship.”

“Mm. And your quarters are that way,” Makino pointed out, and yelped when he gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulder in response to her cheek, making her grasp his shirt so as not to fall off. He felt one of the buttons tear loose, and glanced down, before inclining his head to look at her.

“I’m well-acquainted with your impatience, my heart,” he said, as he made for the door to his cabin. “But out on deck? That’s bold, even for me.”

Before she could respond he’d shouldered his way through the door, and with two long strides had deposited her on his bunk, a shriek pulling loose of her, before it dissolved into breathless giggles as she rolled over onto her back.

“I wouldn’t mind the deck of your ship,” she said, with a contemplative hum. “You know, I used to fantasise about that. You were a very strict captain. Very— _hic_ —disciplined.”

It was difficult deciding if it was the words themselves or the way she spoke them that had heat dropping into his gut like he’d been punched. “I forgot how much your tongue loosens when you drink,” Shanks said, shaking his head.

He watched her stretch herself out across his bunk, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs, exposing her legs. Her braid had come loose from its bun, and there were flower petals caught in the folds of her dress, the gauzy fabric clinging and slipping as she shifted. Froth and sea-foam playing in the surf, and the dark, quiet waters of her eyes watching him from under hooded lids.

“You’re unfairly beautiful,” he told her, seriously. “It’s sobering.”

She laughed, a delightfully throaty sound. “Knowing you, I feel like I should apologise.”

“Don’t.” He smiled, stepping closer, knee nudged against the mattress as he sank some of his weight onto it, but he’d barely adjusted before she’d pushed herself up, hands gripping his shirt to pull him down with her, and loosening a startled shout from his chest.

“Taking too long,” she murmured into his mouth, and for a moment the kiss distracted him into yielding, before he broke it, and pushed himself up on his elbow to look at her.

“So _impatient_ ,” he laughed, the sound a low, infinitely pleased thing. “I’ll crush you if you’re not careful. I hope you haven’t forgotten that I only have one arm to hold my weight.”

As though in answer, he felt her fingers curving around his left shoulder, and the scarred stump, the touch as deliberate as the look she gave him. And her eyes were glassy when they met his, but the adoration settling across her features was so earnest it took him a moment to locate his breath.

“You’re such a pretty man,” Makino sighed, touching her fingertips to his cheek. “Your wife is very lucky. _Oh—_ hey.” Her expression brightened, her smile entirely cheeky. “That’s _me_.”

Shanks grinned, delighted. “You are absolutely hammered, aren’t you?”

“Hmm, I think I’m about to be.” She frowned. “Wait—was that not a euphemism?”

The roar of laughter that tore from him had to reach the village it was so loud, and he had to brace himself above her so as not to collapse his entire weight on top of her, his stomach cramping from the onslaught.

Lips at the junction of her neck, he felt her shiver. “It could be, if you’re up for it,” he told her, and felt her chest cave with her breath. Sliding his hand under her back, he flipped them easily, and her own laughter spilled across his chest, along with a shower of petals.

“How many of these did you put in?” Shanks asked, pulling one from where it had gotten tangled by her ear. “I swear there’s no end to them. I’ll be finding these in my bunk months from now.”

Looking down at him, Makino gave him a drunk little smile, seeming delighted by the prospect. Her dress had bunched up around her hips, and one strap had slipped off her shoulder, but she hardly seemed to notice.

“I thought it would be nice,” she said, picking a stray petal off his chest. “It was really romantic in the book.”

“Oh so you’re admitting it now?”

“I’m—” she pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing at his knowing grin, “—not saying it’s _not_ what I’m saying. That’s what I’m saying.”

“God, you’re eloquent. If I wasn’t already in love with you, I’m pretty sure that would do it.”

She slapped his chest, but when he laughed, the action jolting her where she sat, Shanks saw the way her eyes fluttered shut, a sigh loosened as she sank into her seat, and he stifled a groan when she brushed her fingers over his cock through the fabric of his pants. And he might have offered a teasing quip about her usual impatience, but he felt his own far too keenly, watching her where she straddled his hips, her head tipped back slightly and her mouth parted.

His own fingers moving up her thigh, pushing away her dress, Shanks cupped them around her bare hip. But—“Wait,” he said, brow furrowing as his thumb brushed across her hipbone. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

At her carefully innocent look, his grin turned ferocious. “You put a garden’s worth of flowers in your hair but you went commando at our wedding,” he marvelled. Then, seriously, “I don’t think I’ve ever been as turned on as I am now.”

A dark brow lifting, Makino shifted in her seat, dragging her fingers along his length with near unbearable care, and making his head drop back against the bunk.

“See now,” Shanks said, breath sitting suddenly heavy in his chest. “I seem to remember someone announcing to my entire crew her intentions of getting me out of my pants. And yet here I am, still wearing pants.”

As though in response, he felt her grip tighten, before her palm flattened to give a single, deliberate stroke, and he didn’t bother stifling the sound that dragged from him now.

“So impatient,” Makino crooned, but she shivered when he reached up to push the other strap off her shoulder, the dress slipping down to expose her breasts, and when he flicked his thumb over a pert nipple the whimper that startled out of her shot straight into his gut.

Her eyes slipped closed for a moment, delicate features taut with anticipation, before she opened them to look at him, the naked suggestion on her face emphasised by the elfin smile that followed. And when she reached to unfasten his pants he tilted his hips to help her, the removal an entirely graceless affair that had her half-collapsing atop him with laughter.

Running his fingers up the length of her spine, “Is this where I ask you to give me a hand?” Shanks asked. “Or is that too on the nose?”

Her eyes swallowed him up. “That’s never stopped you.”

“Few things ever do.”

The inebriated slant of her mouth was an endearingly goofy thing. “And here you are,” she murmured, as though in answer to something beyond his reach; some thought that her face hadn’t let slip, but that he found he understood anyway.

“Hey,” Shanks said then, brushing his knuckles over the bare skin of her hip, towards the dip of her small waist, before spanning it with his fingers. The dress hung off her tiny frame and her braid had come loose completely, but she didn’t seem to have a mind for either, that dark gaze fixed solely on him.

His smile quirked. “Worth the wait?”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and realised belatedly that she might be a little too drunk to derive more than a strictly literal implication from the question. But then her whole being seemed to soften, and her expression was suddenly so stark with feeling it stole what was left of his breath.

“You?” Makino asked, and despite the flush to her cheeks and her glassy eyes there was a staggering weight of sober honesty to her answer when she offered it, along with a smile that he had a feeling he would remember, longer than the laughter and the flowers in her hair—

“Always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible and gorgeously talented saessenach on tumblr [drew this amazing art of Shanks and Makino from this fic](http://saessenach.tumblr.com/post/170224492883/missmungoe-does-this-thing-where-she-rips-out). I'm still not over how perfect they look.


	2. queen of peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: goofy, hungover newlyweds. And beach sex.

“A wedding dress, huh?” There was a snort tacked onto the end of the question. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Makino flicked her gaze up from the mound of fabric in her lap, a needle perched between her teeth. The sharp eyes looking back at her from across the low table didn’t yield from where they’d grabbed hold, and neither did the scissor’s cut of her smile, sitting at the corner of that hard mouth.

Removing the needle from between her lips, “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Makino said, before slipping it through a fold in the fabric, meticulously measured.

The woman observing her work let loose a scoff. “No need to look so ruffled, kid. You know you weren’t exactly courting a secure future when you went off and decided to wait for a pirate.”

“He came back,” Makino said, and didn’t know why it sounded like a retaliation.

From the look she got, Suzume wasn’t surprised, but, “He did that,” she agreed. Then, one grey brow arched, as though she’d heard more in her response than Makino had wanted to let slip, “Even if he _was_ late,” she added.

Makino didn’t comment on that, smoothing her hands over the soft fabric of the yet-unfinished dress, trailing a fingertip along a slip of sheer lace. She thought she might have had an objection ready, to counter the suggestion that she’d had doubts, but couldn’t find the conviction to speak it. She’d never been able to lie with a straight face.

“No need to be ashamed,” the old woman said then, making her look up, startled. But it wasn’t sympathy Makino found on her face, just a stark sort of understanding as Suzume snorted. “Sea’s mercy, girl, it’s been ten years. A saint would have had her doubts in your shoes.”

Makino didn’t drop her eyes to the dress in her lap, but worried the fabric between her fingers. “I know,” she murmured, but even as she said it, felt the words rang too hollow for the surety she wanted.

She wasn’t proud to admit that she’d had her doubts. She’d told Shanks as much. But she still felt guilty that she had considered it, not just the possibility that he might not come back, but what she might have done if he hadn’t — that she might have married someone else. That she’d wavered at all.

Having him back now, and having had him ask her to choose him, she couldn’t even imagine it — sitting here, sewing her wedding dress, fully prepared to marry someone else and her future laid out before her, solid and sure like the ground under her feet.

“You’re acting like Red didn’t have his share,” Suzume said then, leaning back in her chair. “Please. There hasn’t exactly been a shortage of suitors knocking on your doors. You think he didn’t know there would be?”

Fiddling with the dress, Makino didn’t respond. She remembered — Touya hadn’t been the first, but he’d been the most recent, and it had been easier brushing the others off, back when their separation had still been new. But ten years was a heavy weight to carry, even for a heart as steady as hers.

She hadn’t really thought about it, how it must have been for Shanks. He’d told her he wouldn’t have held it against her if she’d found someone else, but she couldn’t help but wonder now, just how much it would have hurt him if she had.

The thought hurt her, thinking about it, and she had to loosen her fingers from where they’d come to grip the dress.

A sharp movement from across the table startled her out of her thoughts, and she glanced up to find a gnarled hand held out, the wish clear, although the crook of her fingers hinted at a demand more than a suggestion. Then again, Makino wouldn’t have expected anything else.

“Let’s have a look at it then,” Suzume said, a change of topic offered with about as much gentleness as her request for the dress, but Makino accepted the reprieve with a smile, and handed it over.

It was simple, the ivory fabric soft to the touch, the kind that hugged rather than fell. Thin straps over the shoulders and an open back trimmed with lace, and she’d stitched a row of tiny silk buttons up the front, marking a path from the snug waist to where the neckline dipped. The old woman had been the one to teach her, once upon a time, but she was confident in her stitches, now that they were under inspection.

Of course, Makino knew it wasn’t the stitches Suzume would be looking at.

A snort, and those keen eyes lifting above the wired glasses perched on her severe nose. “The man came back after ten years. Wouldn’t kill you to cut a slit up the thigh. Show a little leg.”

Makino met her look, unflinching. “I’m happy with it the way it is.”

“A deeper neckline, maybe,” Suzume continued, ignoring her. “You’re getting married, not shipping yourself off to a convent.”

“It’s not _that_ modest.”

That clever smile hooked at the corner, and she turned the dress over, inspecting the back with a nod. “Maybe not. The back’s a nice touch, although that’s not usually what most men are excited about. Then again, Red probably won’t complain. Ogles you fully clothed without trouble, that one.”

A thoughtful hum followed, as she turned the dress back over, tugging gently at one of the buttons. “In any case, it’s damn fine work.” She raised her eyes to Makino, crooked grin widening. “And he can have his fun unbuttoning _these_ , so I guess it ain’t a total loss.” Then with a grunt, “Given that he’ll manage. He only has one set of fingers.”

Makino pursed her mouth with a smile, then said, demurely, “He likes a challenge.”

She got a loud guffaw for that, followed by a delighted, shark-like grin. “Oh, girl. When you say things like that, you make me think you’ll be okay.”

Then she was handing the dress back, before pushing to her feet, and Makino watched as she lumbered across her small living room, every movement sharp and brittle; cutting, like a knife. She’d always been a wiry little woman, seeming stubbornly slow-lived, despite her frequent claims to the opposite, as though death would have to physically pry her from the world if it wanted her. But watching her now, Makino felt her brows dipping, attention catching on the awkward, almost stilted way she handled herself.

She had a thought to ask, but could already imagine the response — the sharp-tongued remark to mind her own damn business, and that she wasn’t dead _yet_ , and so she kept her thoughts to herself, worrying the dress in her lap as Suzume made her way back.

Two tin cups were placed on the table, along with a dusty bottle of something amber, the label so faded the letters were barely visible.

“This looks old,” Makino said, reaching out to touch the bottle, a thick layer of dust coating her fingertips as she brushed it away. She didn’t recognise the brand, which was saying something. She might not be a heavy drinker, but she knew her alcohol. Her whiskeys in particular.

A strange smile lifted her mouth, as Suzume reclaimed her seat with some difficulty. “It is,” she said, the husky grit of her voice sounding strained, as though she had to push the words out. Easing into the chair, she huffed out a breath. “Old as balls. It’s spent forty years in that cupboard, and it was already old when I got my hands on it.”

At her surprised look, Suzume shrugged. “I’ve been saving it,” she explained. “Dunno what the hell for, to be honest, but I’m too old to be saving shit. Next you know, it’ll end up in my will.”

“Suzume-san!”

She waved her off with a grunt, the response so familiar it seemed to have come without thinking, but when she looked at Makino next there was something foreign in her expression, as Suzume said, gruffly, “I guess if there’s any occasion to celebrate, it’s this one. Never did have any brats of my own to see married, not even your old lady, rest her obstinate soul. But then you’re a mother short of some sage pre-wedding advice, so I guess this works out for the both of us.”

Her look couldn’t be called soft any more than the rest of her, and the rasp of her voice had never been tender or ever tried to be, but there was a lump forming in her throat as Makino looked at her, and those gnarled, always-steady hands reaching to uncork the old bottle, to fill their cups.

It wasn’t tea, which a mother might have offered, a few days before her daughter’s wedding. But then the woman who’d been Makino’s mother wouldn’t have bothered with tea, either.

Accepting the drink as it was poured, Makino considered it for a second, cupped in her palms, before she knocked it back, feeling it dissolving the tears clogging her throat as the warmth of it filled her belly whole. Old and smoky, and with a bite that lingered — a lot like the woman who’d poured it, who’d tossed her own cup back with a smile that looked suddenly forty years younger than the rest of her.

“That’s the stuff,” she sighed over a trilling laugh, before helping herself to another. Then under her breath, so quietly Makino almost didn’t catch it, “Can’t forget that taste, eh, Captain?”

But before she could ask what she’d meant by that, Suzume had tipped back her second drink, and placing her cup on the table, asked her, “So, did Red bring any decent drink for this shindig? Can’t imagine he wouldn’t have, knowing him.”

Makino frowned, thumb rubbing idly against the rim of her cup. “I don’t think he brought any explicitly for the occasion.”

She got an arched brow for that. “So _you_ say,” Suzume retorted. “You honestly think he didn’t come back planning to ask you? Don’t be naive, Ma-chan. You’re too old for that.”

Makino curbed the impulse to shoot back that it wasn’t so much about being naive as it was a form of self-preservation. She didn’t know if Shanks had planned on proposing already before coming back. She hadn’t considered the possibility too closely — hadn’t wanted to hope too much.

Thinking about the look on his face, that morning he’d woken her with the question that had failed rather wonderfully at being an actual question, she wondered if she might have her answer.

Suzume barked a short laugh. “Pleased, are you?”

Makino didn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off her face. “And if I am?”

The grin she got for that was keenly satisfied. “Not saying you shouldn’t be. You could do with being a little more shameless, given who you’re marrying.” She shifted her gaze to the dress in Makino’s lap again. “Speaking of. I hope you’re wearing something exciting underneath that thing,” Suzume said.

Makino doubted she had any more success hiding her stupid smile than she did stifling her blush, and so she just lifted her chin, and said, “I have something in mind.”

“Oh yeah?”

She could almost believe the old woman sounded intrigued. Somehow, it proved curiously gratifying, but she didn’t indulge her, averting her eyes instead to her unfinished dress with a small, secret smile. She ran her fingers over the fabric, imagining how it would look when it was finished. It would be a snug fit; there wouldn’t be much room for anything underneath.

She tried to imagine his reaction to that, and found it with ease; stunned wonder, and that boyish, marvelling grin, and she knew her expression had to be just as telling of her own intentions now, because she heard then, a shrill cackle tearing loose from across the table.

“I know a scheme in the works when I see one,” Suzume said, with a shake of her head. “Even if it’s a gentle scheme, but then you’ve always been true to that innocent heart of yours. Not something everyone can say in this world.”

Something in her expression loosened then, easing some of the deeper lines beside her mouth, and it was an odd little smile she offered when she said, “I think your old lady would be damn proud of you, Makino.”

Makino felt the tears pressing against her eyes now. And it had been well over a decade since her mother’s death, and she wasn’t a girl in need of one anymore, but she felt it then, that same feeling she’d had when she’d been twenty, all alone with a bar to her name and wondering how she would ever manage.

But she had managed. And she’d manage now too, whatever came of this, being a pirate’s wife — being _this_ pirate’s wife — and if it came to that, a few years down the line and _she’d_ be a mother—

A cheerful knock sounded on the door, before it opened, and Shanks ducked inside, bringing the sea breeze with him, and the smell of wet earth. It had been raining on and off all day, and the soft drizzle had darkened his hair, and soaked through his shirt at the shoulders.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, as Makino scrambled to cover the dress in her lap. He blinked, smile quirking with bemusement. “What are you up to?”

She huffed fondly. “You’re not supposed to see the dress before the wedding!”

“Ridiculous tradition, if you ask me,” Suzume interjected. “And I think it’s the bride _in_ the dress, but if you’re so worried you’re going to bungle that old practice, you could always just skip wearing the dress altogether. Go starkers.”

Shanks’ whole face lit up, as he looked at Makino. “Is that an option?”

“If it was, I wouldn’t be the only one doing it,” she shot back primly, and Suzume nearly choked on her laughter.

“Now _there’s_ a wedding,” she drawled, with an appreciative look at Shanks, who returned it with a shameless smile, and a wink at Makino, whose attempted cheek had backfired rather spectacularly.

“Care for a drink, Red?” Suzume asked then, as he moved to take a seat on the sofa next to Makino, making a show of averting his eyes as she slipped the dress away and out of sight.

“You know I’m not hard to ask, Suzume-san,” Shanks said. Makino felt his hand settling on her knee where she’d pulled her legs up, thumb rubbing a tender circle over the curve of it, his fingers warm even through her skirt, and the cheeky smile that met her was so bright it was almost hard to look at.

“No,” the old woman laughed, a rough sort of delight. The look she passed between them was somewhere between fondly enduring and shamelessly amused. “It’s what I like about you. Reminds me of someone I used to know.”

She pushed the bottle forward then, and made to root out another cup, and Makino watched as Shanks’ brows furrowed, before the warmth of his hand left her knee as he reached out to take the bottle.

Turning it over to read the label, a strange smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I thought this brand was out of production,” he said.

Suzume’s eyes twinkled, as she eased herself back in her seat. “Has been a for a long time.”

Shanks didn’t respond to that, gaze still on the bottle in his hand, and seeming suddenly miles away. Or years.

“Shanks?” Makino asked.

Blinking, he looked at her, before he put the bottle down. He shook his head, but the strange smile hadn’t left his mouth. “Just got a weird sense of nostalgia,” he explained. Then, eyes glancing off the bottle again, “It was Captain’s favourite. He said there was only a handful of bottles left in the world. He’d rooted out most of them for himself.”

He looked at the old woman seated across from them, watching him back without flinching. “How did you come by it, Suzume-san?”

Makino thought she detected something in his voice, although couldn’t put her finger on what it was. But from the look on Suzume’s face, she’d caught it.

“It was a retirement gift,” she said, smile quirking. “From an old friend.”

“Must have been a good friend,” Shanks mused. “This is a rare vintage. Expensive.”

“As good as they come,” Suzume said. “Shameless as they come, too. You’re a lot like him.”

Shanks’ smile looked suddenly knowing, his expression hinting at realisation, as though a piece in an old puzzle had finally slid into place, and Makino had the sense that something had passed between them, but neither of them elaborated, and she thought better than to ask.

“So,” Suzume said then, looking between them. “What have you got planned for this wedding party? This place has been dead since you were here last, so it better be at least as good as the one you threw before you left, or I’ll be the one who’s dead next.” And with a nod at Makino, “And I didn’t stick around all this time to see this one married all proper-like. Not to a goddamn pirate. So someone damn well better get _wasted_.”

“That is an extremely likely prospect,” Shanks said.

Suzume’s grin turned wicked. “Yeah? I’ve got my money on that first mate of yours,” she said. “The quiet ones are always the wildest drunks.”

“ _Ben_?” Makino asked, dubious.

“Oh no, she’s right,” Shanks said, and when she raised a brow, shrugged. “Ben makes terrible decisions when he’s drunk. Tattoos-in-regrettable-places kind of terrible. Good luck getting it out of him, though. I think you’d have to get him even drunker just to admit it. Not saying it can’t be done. We brought a _lot_ of booze.”

Suzume’s grin was as feral as the laughter that poured out of her, and Makino was distracted from asking about whatever regrettable tattoos Ben might be sporting by the loud, unabashed glee in the sound, followed by a near-wistful sigh as she said, lifting her refilled cup to her lips, “It’s damn good to have you back, Red.”

Clearly pleased, Shanks just grinned, reaching for his own drink, but Makino left hers sitting on the table, savouring instead the warmth that found her, watching him — and her agreement, the feeling fierce but the words tucked under her tongue, spoken instead with the smile she gave him, one that hid absolutely nothing, and didn’t even try.

 

—

 

Of course, not everyone shared Suzume’s sentiment.

Makino wasn’t surprised to discover that it was the case; she’d already expected that Touya would have misgivings, although the fact that he’d decided to take it up with _Shanks_ and not Makino herself rankled enough that it had left a tight knot in her stomach, where before she’d felt some modicum of sympathy.

It didn’t sit well with her. She’d made her feelings clear, and had left no room for ambiguity. And she’d thought, although maybe a little naively, that he’d make his peace with her decision, and respect it.

The knot greeted her upon waking, roused with the sun as she was used to, from years of similar mornings spent nurturing the quiet solitude of her land-bound life; her little habits and routines, peaceful and lonely that they were.

But even with the early awakening, one thing was different now, and there was little of solitude to be found in the warm body pressed up against her back, and the heavy weight of the arm across her hip, his nose nudged against the back of her neck and the low rumble of his snores drawing her out of sleep.

She spent a few minutes coming awake to the sound, wrapped in his warmth and watching the sliver of sea and horizon beyond the window, thinking of all the mornings between now and the first time she’d woken like this. It had taken time, she remembered, getting used to sharing a bed, and he wasn’t the easiest bunkmate, especially for one so used to having her own space. She’d spent a lot of time in the beginning coming awake at odd hours, or unable to fall asleep with his arms around her, but having spent so long sleeping alone, Makino welcomed it now — every odd habit, and that unnatural warmth; his large frame caged around hers.

He was a heavy sleeper, and didn’t stir as she turned, easing herself under his arm until they were face to face, although she felt him tightening his grip around her waist, and hid her smile against his chest. His eyes were shut, the scarred side of his face buried in the pillow, and she took a moment just to look at it, the unmarred half exposed and his hair falling into his brow.

It was strange, seeing him like this; the scars hidden and his missing arm not immediately apparent.

She considered for a moment kissing him awake, but decided against it, threading her fingers through the hair on his chest, and feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under her palm. They’d had this conversation already, but she still had something left to do — something _she_ had to do.

“W‘re you going?” Shanks murmured, when she made to extract herself, his voice rich with sleep, his inflections thicker than usual. “‘s too early.”

She touched his cheek, but he didn’t open his eyes. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said.

“Better here,” he rumbled, the words muffled by the pillow. “’m _very_ naked.”

Her smile came, as startled as it was wide. “A compelling argument,” Makino murmured, carding her fingers through his hair to brush it away from his face, which drew a hum from deep in his chest.

She paused then, and, “Shanks,” Makino said, quietly. She didn’t get a response, although she didn’t let that stop her. “I love you.”

He made a sound that could have been anything, and she shook her head, her smile remaining, even as the knot in her stomach did the same.

She left him sleeping, sprawled across the bed, and a wordless grunt was all she got when she kissed his brow and went to dress. And he still hadn’t stirred when she emerged from the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to watch him.

It was still a feat getting used to it, having him back in her life — in her bed, where he seemed no less comfortable than he had been once, and she drew some strength from the fact as she made for the stairs.

The morning greeted her with a slight chill, and the smell of rain in the air, but it helped clear her head as she set off towards the docks. It was early, but Touya would be awake. He liked to fish by the wharf as the sun rose, Makino knew.

The curiously intimate detail made something turn over in her stomach, but she shoved it down, and forged on, resolute. She liked to learn things about people — it didn’t mean anything that she knew these things, or that he’d shared them with her in the first place.

It might have meant something to _him_ , she realised belatedly, but didn’t shy away from the thought as it found her now. It was part of why she needed to talk to him, after all.

The sun had begun to creep across the rooftops, but even wide awake and with a purpose in mind, she felt the urge to turn back — to walk back up the stairs to her bedroom, and to Shanks, to climb back under the covers and wrap herself around him, kissing him until he was laughing against her mouth. She’d let him uncurl the knot in her gut, with those deep kisses that knew her so well, until she was filled with him instead, the slow build of a shuddering climax to coax her back down, and keep her there, anchored by his weight and the feel of him inside her. The kind she’d been craving for ten years.

For a single second she was so tempted she almost did turn back, but it wasn’t indecision that finally halted her step, making her pause halfway down the street to the wharf.

Woop Slap was sitting on his porch, bespectacled eyes raised to take in her approach. He was waiting for the morning paper, Makino suspected, familiar with the ways of her village, and the people in it; their own small habits and routines.

He gave her a quick once-over, nothing in his expression to suggest what he thought, but Makino felt suddenly like smoothing out her hair. She’d left it loose, forgoing her usual kerchief, and even to braid it. A suddenly telling detail, she realised with some embarrassment.

He raised his brows, and she frowned. She had the sudden impression that he was amused, although it was an acutely dry sort of amusement.

“If you’re looking for him, he went off that way,” he told her then, with a nod in the direction of the wharf. He didn’t specify just who he was referring to, but with a meaningful glance at Makino, “So did two of the pirates.”

She blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“The big one—the one who’s always eating,” Woop Slap said.

“Lucky?” she asked. She had no doubt that he knew their names, and that his obstinacy was born of some old, stubborn reluctance to admit to anything at all concerning pirates, just for the principle of the matter. But she was too surprised by what he was telling her to call him out on his bluff.

“Hm,” he agreed. “And the tall one. The only one with any sense.”

Her brows knit together. “Ben.”

He nodded, and she stared at him, before it struck her what he was actually _saying_ , and before she could even think to say goodbye she’d picked up her feet, her earlier worries about what might be awaiting her increasing tenfold, and a sudden urgency pushing her forward that left no thought to remember what she’d rather be doing.

She came upon them like that, at a half-run — Ben and Lucky, and Touya, a silent stand-off that seemed to have been going on for a while, and that didn’t yield an inch, even upon her arrival, although she saw Touya lift his eyes to hers.

Lucky was eating, seeming wholly unperturbed by the tension in the air, and Ben had his arms crossed, but there was nothing about either of their stances that suggested an impending physical altercation.

“Ben,” Makino said carefully, a little out of breath from her run. Then, brows furrowing slightly, “Lucky.”

“Makino,” Lucky greeted, grinning around a mouthful. Ben only lifted a brow, as though there was nothing amiss with this tapestry.

There was a whole, tense beat, wherein neither of them made a move to speak, or to suggest they had any plans of doing so any time soon.

Eyes on Ben, “Could you give us a moment?” Makino asked then, the query light, but a note of pressure behind the words that suggested it wasn’t a question at all.

There was a second where she wondered if he would refuse, but all he did was nod, and with a glance at Lucky, moved to take his leave.

Passing her by, “You know where you’ve got us,” Ben said simply, but didn’t wait for her response as he made to leave. Lucky moved to follow suit, but took his time — and took a considerable bite of the leg of meat in his hand before doing so.

Makino watched them both go, before turning her eyes back to Touya. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and his usually-smiling mouth was turned down at the corners, displeasure and something else deepening his features.

She was about to ask what they’d said to him, when he beat her to it. “Threats, is it?”

Makino blinked, surprised. And she had half a mind to blurt that it didn’t sound like them, issuing threats, but from the look on his face, didn’t think he was in the wrong for having taken it that way. Easy-going as they all were, they were fully capable of being intimidating.

Still, the way he was looking at her suggested they’d approached him on _her_ orders.

“I didn’t ask them to,” she said, taken aback by the realisation. She wondered how he could possibly think she would have.

The look he gave her told her he didn’t believe her, but, “Maybe not,” Touya conceded. “But they still did it for your sake.”

Makino closed her mouth, cutting off the protest that had been on its way off her tongue. She couldn’t exactly claim that it wasn’t the case, although she didn’t know what might have prompted them to seek him out. Shanks wouldn’t have asked them to, she knew that for a fact.

Touya shook his head then. “Were you always like this?” he asked.

Makino frowned. She didn’t like the way he’d phrased that question. “Always like what?”

He shrugged. It was a stiff gesture, full of sharp edges. “Friendly with pirates.”

The way he said _friendly_ was suggestive, but she didn’t know just what it was he was implying — didn’t want to look too closely at that implication, or what the look on his face meant.

“They are my friends,” she said, and kept herself from saying _they are my crew._ She doubted it would help, even if she felt a sudden, reckless impulse to blurt it.

Touya said nothing to that, but the bitter smile told her it was probably for the best — that whatever he wanted to say, it wouldn’t be kind.

“I thought you were, too,” Makino said then, and saw him avert his eyes from hers, his smile widening, as though in disbelief. As though there’d been something funny about what she’d said.

“I didn’t want to be your friend, Makino,” he told her, turning his eyes back to look at her. There was little of the smile left now. “You know I wanted more than that.”

“Yes,” she said. “And I told you that I didn’t feel the same.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, a short, harsh sound. “So you did.” He looked at her, mouth twisting in a grimace now. “You’d rather have him, right? A wanted criminal who’d rather be out at sea than here with you. And what is he, a decade older than you? You’ll excuse me if I don’t see the appeal.”

The knot in her gut cinched tighter. It was getting hard to breathe past it, like it was hard for her to reconcile how he was acting with the man she’d gotten to know. He had been kind, she’d known that from the moment they’d first met. Had she been so _wrong_?

As though having followed the same line of thought, “I guess I didn’t know you like I thought I did,” Touya said then.

“No,” Makino agreed. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her — like he was disappointed. As though he’d looked at her, really _looked_ , and didn't like what he’d found. “You only knew the me you wanted me to be,” she said, and felt suddenly sure of that when he flinched away like she’d slapped him.

“If you’d really known _me_ , you wouldn’t be surprised by this,” she continued, strangely emboldened by his reaction. “That I’m friendly with pirates, or that I’d choose him. Maybe you wouldn’t agree with my decision, but you would have understood why I made it.”

Touya didn’t speak up to agree, but Makino didn’t need him to confirm it. He hadn’t known _her,_ not as she was, all her small secrets and proclivities. He knew she liked to read, and had asked what kind of books, but had never asked her _why,_ or sought to know her from the stories she loved; the adventures she'd lived. He knew her as kind, and polite, mild-mannered and soft-spoken, but had never looked further than that, to what was underneath it — the laughter that could be as loud as Shanks’ if prompted, and the humour that could be just as lewd. The part of her that was a pirate at heart; that had been that for ten years while she waited for her crew to come back.

“And who are you then, Makino?” Touya asked, with enough derision that suggested she was a fool for thinking herself anything than what she appeared, and the sudden surge of anger it sparked dragged the words from her before she could stop them—

“I’m one of them!” she snapped, surprising herself.

She’d surprised him, too, from the way he drew back at the exclamation, but contempt was quick to overtake it.

“So you’re a pirate now?” he asked, with a laugh that was almost breathless. “You’ll go with them when they leave, to the Grand Line? Serve them drinks, and warm their captain’s bed? You think he’d want you there, infringing on his freedom? Don’t kid yourself, Makino.”

Her hands shook where she’d clenched them at her sides. And she wasn’t prone to anger — she didn’t have it in her, her temper too gentle for stoking, and for loud, reckless outbursts. But it found her now, although it was the kind of anger that made her throat close up and tears of frustration press against her eyes.

She curled her fingers together, something like furious helplessness pushing up her chest, holding a shout that refused to make it past the bottom of her throat.

And maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d thought he’d known someone he didn’t, Makino thought then. Looking at him now, that strange sneer tugging at his mouth, she wondered if she’d only known the version of him she’d wanted to know — the man who’d been kind, and courteous. Sweet, if a bit dull. She hadn’t wanted to know more than that, hadn’t needed to, but maybe if she had she would have realised earlier that even kind hearts were susceptible to jealousy, and could be made ugly from it.

“He’ll leave,” Touya said then. “He might marry you, and then you can finally call yourself someone’s wife. I guess it’ll help all that gossip. Maybe he’ll even knock you up before he sets sail, and you’ll have a pirate’s brat to raise who’ll never know his father outside of a wanted poster. But he’ll leave, and you’ll be here, like you’ve always been. He’ll still be free to fuck whoever he wants, and have you when he comes back.”

He scoffed, a humourless-sounding laugh. “Must be nice to be lawless. No honour, even to show your own wife. But I guess that’s okay with you, being a warm body for him to fuck whenever he feels like stopping by. If he even bothers.”

The words came to settle, laden with an unforgiving weight of open disdain. Speechless, Makino could only stare, unable to comprehend what she was even hearing. He hadn’t exactly made a secret of what he thought of Shanks, but _this—_

She felt breathless with anger now — anger, and regret, and disbelief, for having even for a second considered the possibility of a future with a man like that. She thought she would rather have spent a lifetime alone.

Touya made to move past her then, and she kept herself from flinching back, but he didn’t reach out to touch her, and she held her ground as he strode past, pausing only to say, “Don’t worry, I won’t be sticking around. Your _friends_ made it clear that it wouldn’t be in my best interest.”

She didn’t respond, gaze fixed on the water, and the dinghies bobbing by the wharf. The sun was up now, and the glare was hard on her eyes, stinging with unshed, furious tears.

“I hope you’re happy,” Touya said.

Makino didn’t tell him that he didn’t sound sincere in the least, but knew her own sincerity transferred, when she looked at him and said, resolute, “I am.”

He had nothing to offer that, and she was relieved when all he did was walk away. And she felt the breath she’d been holding as it rushed out of her, and was glad when it didn’t drag a sob with it.

It took her a moment of gathering herself — of forcing her breathing into something that didn’t hurt, and to blink her eyes dry — before she turned to make her way back, feeling suddenly cold, even as the sun had begun to warm the air, heralding a warm day.

Arms wrapped around herself, she walked back up from the wharf. The village was coming awake, and someone greeted her as they walked past, but she barely had the mind to offer one in return, her voice still feeling like it was trapped in her throat.

She found Ben waiting for her in the street, and paused. Lucky was nowhere to be seen, and Ben’s casual stance suggested he’d just stopped for a smoke, even if Makino knew that was far from the case.

He’d looked up at her approach, and watched her now where she stood, arms wrapped in a tight, unyielding cross. The knot in her stomach persisted, having twisted further in on itself, and instead of feeling better, like she’d thought she would, she felt worse. But then she’d thought her conversation with Touya would go differently; had believed, naively, that he would listen, or at least respect her decision.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, but just the thought had frustration inching up her chest, thinking of the man in it, and everything Touya had suggested. The fact that she hadn’t been able to find the voice to speak in Shanks’ defence, so angry she’d wanted to scream, but even that she hadn’t been able to do.

And then there was the fact that it was nothing new, what he’d told her, and that she’d even considered the thought once herself — that she wasn’t the only one, and that she was a fool for staying true to a man she hadn’t seen in ten years.

She felt sick to her stomach now, thinking that she’d given the thought even a second’s consideration.

Ben hadn’t said anything, seeming to wait for her to speak first, and Makino pushed a breath past her teeth, a sharp, decisive sound even as her voice quavered, and she declared thickly, “I need a drink.”

She couldn’t have hid the evidence of her tears if she’d wanted to, but Ben’s expression didn’t waver, and he pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “I’ll pour you one.”

Makino didn’t try to smile, finding the effort suddenly too much, and whatever she might have managed would have been as telling as the rest of her. She was still angry, but exhaustion had crept into her limbs now, a growing numbness. She felt tired, but in a raw, hurtful way. Nothing like the soft, lethargic daze she’d woken to earlier.

She regretted suddenly ever having gotten out of bed.

“What did he say to you?” Ben asked her then.

Makino looked at him, lips pressing together. She wondered how she must look, from the way he was watching her, sharp gaze assessing but the hard slant of his brow yielding none of his thoughts.

She’d never been able to lie, least of all to Ben, and so she settled for the truth. “Nothing he hadn’t already said to you,” she told him simply, and knew from the slight hardening at the corners of his eyes that she’d guessed right.

She fought the flush of embarrassment, but felt it where it overtook her, warming her collar, and her cheeks. And she could endure the names, the suggestion that she was nothing to Shanks but a good fuck, someone to keep his bed warm, but to have it flaunted in front of others, the people she considered her _family—_

“Makino,” Ben said then. “He won’t be a problem.”

Despite herself, she felt a wet laugh escape her. It sounded as startled as she felt. “Issuing threats now, Ben?”

His smile was hard. “Healthy suggestions,” he corrected. “He’ll be wise to follow them.” He paused, and then, “I could rough him up a bit, if you want.”

She wiped at her eyes, the tears spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back, but her smile came, too. “I didn’t think you were the type to advocate violence to solve problems,” Makino said, even as she remembered, that sunny afternoon ten years ago, and Ben stepping forward, barely a pause to draw breath before there’d been bandits littering the dirt at his feet.

As though in agreement, “I don’t have the Captain’s morals,” Ben told her evenly, and without shame. “I simply do what’s in everyone’s best interest.”

“Wisdom delivered with fists?” she asked, and saw his mouth quirking.

“If the skull is particularly thick, it’s the only kind that will get through.”

She laughed at that, a thick, tear-clogged sound, and ducked her head to press her sleeve against her eyes. But she felt a little better, the knot loosening a fraction when she drew her next breath, enough to stop her feeling like being sick, but it still remained, as though wedged between her ribs.

A touch to her shoulder then, and she looked up, surprised, but Ben only met her gaze, expression unwavering. “He’s an ass,” he told her, and tightened his grip once. His hand was heavy on her shoulder, seeming to ground her. “He’s not worth your time, or your kindness.”

It was said with a stark, ruthless reason, and a look that told her plainly that he thought there were more things Touya didn’t deserve. But under that was something else — the wry knowledge that she would still _try._ The one that knew she might be angry now, and hurt, but that she still couldn’t hate someone, even for treating her badly; that she would still forgive him for it, when all was said and done.

But Ben didn’t ask her to change, simply understood that she was who she was, although that didn’t stop him from implying, and without shame, that he wouldn’t be showing Touya the same courtesy.

And here was someone who _did_ know her, Makino realised. Someone who always had, and who cared about her deeply, but who’d never put his own feelings before her. She’d suspected once, years ago now, that there might have been an inkling of interest there beyond friendship, but Ben had still put their friendship first. And his captain’s.

“You know,” he said then, letting his hand drop from her shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifted, lips pulling into a smile around the cigarette tucked between them. “He was pretty far off the mark with the claims he was throwing around.”

Makino blinked, but before she could ask, Ben continued, “The idiot would never let me live it down if he knew I’d admitted to this, but he’s never had trouble where attention is concerned. Wherever we dock, there’s usually a small flock gathering around him. Barmaids, especially.”

She was surprised by how much the words _stung_ , and her stomach sank, the image rooting itself in her mind, prompted by the casual remark offered up to an imagination that had always been a little too vivid for its own good. And she couldn’t manage a reply, even to blurt a question of why he was telling her this, and now of all times, but before she could attempt to gather her voice, Ben added, “He used to be pretty insufferable about it.”

She closed her mouth, the near-imperceptible emphasis on _used to be_ halting the protest on her tongue.

She swallowed. “I can only imagine,” Makino said, and wasn’t surprised when her voice came out sounding hoarse. And she didn’t doubt that Ben could read every single thought on her face, and every feeling attached to them. It was likely why he was telling her.

“He bemoans his age, but he still gets his share of attention,” Ben said, and she felt her fingers curling into her palms as he added, “More than most. Girls half his age. Guys half his age. They usually regret it, within seconds.”

She looked up to find his eyes gleaming, and his look painfully dry. “The last one who tried her luck had to spend twenty minutes listening to him talk about _you_ ,” he told her. “She lasted longer than the one before her. She caved after ten.”

Makino just stared at him, watching her back. “You changed things,” Ben told her. “Although I don’t think I have to tell you. He probably already has.”

She thought she might have agreed, because Shanks had told her, but found she didn’t need to confirm it, from the look on his face. But she still wanted to say _something —_  wanted to tell Ben that it didn’t matter if she did already know. The fact that he’d so willingly stand up for her, that they all would, meant more than anything, after ten years without them. It solidified what she’d already felt, what she’d already _known —_  that she was more to them than just someone who was important to their captain. That she really was one of them.

“Ben,” she said, softly. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth jutted up. And he didn’t ask what for, or tell her it wasn’t necessary, but then their friendship had always been one of unspoken understanding. Words weren’t all that necessary when you had that, although that didn’t mean they couldn’t be spoken, from time to time.

Makino watched as he removed the butt of his cigarette from between his teeth, to stamp it out with his boot.

“I’ll pour you that drink,” Ben told her. “And I’ll tell you about the time he got so drunk he insisted you really were his wife.”

The smile that found her couldn’t have been helped. “Presumptuous, isn’t he?”

“You don’t know half of it,” Ben deadpanned, falling into step beside her as they set off towards Party’s. “He called you his ‘better half’, then somehow managed to make an amputee joke out of it.”

Tears in her eyes but the knot in her stomach finally loosening, Makino laughed all the way back to the bar.

 

—

 

Shanks was still asleep when she came upstairs later, the drink having burned through the knot, along with her laughter, before the last, stubborn tendrils finally yielded to the sight of him, spread-eagled across her bed.

Climbing onto the mattress, she kissed him, not a tender touch seeking to coax him out of sleep, but one that had him claimed before he’d even emerged, and she felt his smile where it curved against her mouth, before his fingers came to cradle the back of her head, tangling in her hair.

Makino allowed herself to sink into the kiss, finding him warm beneath her, and she felt as he came fully awake; the low, rumbling laugh, and the eager way he responded to the kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth to deepen it, leaving her more lightheaded than even a strong drink on an empty stomach.

Drawing back a little, it was to find him blinking up at her, and, “You taste like scotch,” Shanks told her, his voice still rough with sleep. The sound of it dropped into her stomach, pooling with heat like her earlier drink. There was nothing left of the knot.

“A little early for you to be drinking, my girl?” he asked then, when she didn’t respond, his eyes dark and heavy where they held hers. Then, a gleam winking in them, “Also, you can’t be kissing me like that fully dressed. Or at least you won’t be for long if you keep that up.”

Holding his gaze, her answer was wordless as she reached to loosen the buttons of her blouse, and she watched his brows lifting, following the movements of her fingers as she let it fall open, the soft fabric slipping down her shoulders, baring her. The slight chill in the room raised goosebumps on her skin, on her arms, and the pert swell of her small breasts where her nipples firmed.

His smile followed, delighted if still a little confused, and Makino felt his hand leaving her hair to trace the curve of her hip, before helping to push her skirt up to her waist as she settled across him. He was already hard for her, and she heard how his breath shuddered as she shifted in her seat, grinding against his cock as she eased her knees down on either side of his hips, before giving a slow roll of her own that had heat crawling languidly from her core through all her limbs.

One of her stockings had slid down, and his palm was warm against the bare skin of her thigh when he gripped it, before dipping his fingers inwards and under her skirt, stealing a light caress over her sex before slipping them past the lining of her panties, the thin fabric already damp. Makino heard a groan hooking deep in his throat at finding her slippery-wet, and the resounding ache that gripped her when he pushed one finger inside her stuttered a gasp past her lips; a sweet, pleading thing.

She loved the feel of his fingers within her, large and strong, swordsmanship and a sailor's life having left them rough, mapped with callouses and scars, and he knew how she liked to be touched. He pushed inside her slowly, taking her with deliberate care, and it might have been a relief but it wasn't _enough_ , and the unhurried quality of his smile told her he was well aware.

Her murmur couldn't properly shape the plea on her tongue, but he already knew what she sought. Reaching down, she shakily gathered the folds of her skirt, lifting the whole of it over her head along with her unbuttoned blouse, until she was left in nothing but her panties and stockings.

She caught his grin, dirty and tender, and, "Better," Shanks rumbled, gaze raking over her body, a near-physical caress, before lifting back to hers. The heel of his hand pressing against her sex, he thumbed her clit gently, teasingly, eyes hooded under his scars and the weight of his brow as he took her in, watching her reactions; the slight stutter in her breath as he touched her, sliding his finger in and out at a languid pace, and the heave of her breasts as he found the right spot.

Makino felt him adding another finger, the pad of his thumb sweeping lightly across her clit, rubbing it until she whimpered. She tightened the grip of her knees where she sat astride him, shaking hands trailing down his chest, over his abdomen to seek his cock where it pressed into her thigh.

Even almost fully undressed, she was too hot to think, the pang of wanting too great as she rocked back against his fingers, feeling them crooking deep inside her. Her own curled around his cock, and she heard how his breath caught with a groan as she pumped them up and down his hard length, although she could hardly concentrate, and when he added yet another finger she pushed them deeper, eyes slipping shut with the feeling that filled her, the ache only deepening as he continued to fuck her slowly, until she was gasping, the repeated whimper of his name softened with her breaths.

Blinking her eyes open, she found his, more than just delight in them now, and Makino thought he might ask her where she’d been, but he didn’t, although with his eyes cleared of sleep, she found the questions in them — and with them, the knowledge that he wouldn’t push her for answers.

“What do you want?” Shanks asked instead, the kind of question that suggested the answer could be _everything_ , and he’d still try to make it come about.

The feeling that overtook her left her breathless, and the word was on her tongue — everything, all of it, all of—

“You,” Makino said, a sigh that felt like a release, and when he extracted his fingers to press them against her lower back, flipping them both, she said it again, and again; a request, a wish, a plea and an order as he eased her into the mattress, one rough finger hooked around the hem of her panties to pull them down her legs, kissing the insides of her thighs, the soft mound of her stomach and the seam of her sex, silky and dripping with the need of him. She heard the guttural sound that left him as he licked her clit, her gasp soft and keening where she arched against his tongue.

His hand slid under her back, gripping her ass as he tilted her hips, pushing her legs apart, and with a starved breath he'd thrust inside her, his cock filling her, large and hot where she stretched around him, her little, hitching moans begging with every buck of his hips as she accommodated for his size, until it felt like she couldn't take any more of him, until he was all she _felt_ ; until the ache had dissolved like the knot and the word — _you_ — was no more than a shivering pant against his mouth.

And she’d never asked for much but she would ask for this now, Makino decided, wrapping her legs around his waist, urging him deeper as he pushed inside her, again and again, the slick sound of their bodies coming together growing louder as he fucked her, his breath rasping, nearly drowning out her soft, breathless commands of _more_  and _harder_  where they slipped between her earlier wish — _you, oh, **you**_ — spurred by the way his arm shook to keep himself upright above her. She heard the oath that dragged free of him as he moved with her, into her, as hard as she'd requested, but his nose where he'd tucked it beneath her ear was a softer truth, and the kiss to her neck open-mouthed and tender.

It was all she felt, all of him offered, his large frame enveloping her and the slide of his cock inside her, each thrust bringing her closer to the brink and his strength leached with the trembling kisses she offered back, along with the rest of her, small and pliant beneath him, and the selfish, _wanting_ truth where she spoke it between them that wasn't a small thing at all—

“It’s always been _you_.”

 

—

 

She didn’t hear anything more from Touya after that, and didn’t ask, or seek to find out if he really had left — didn’t want to spare him any more of her thoughts than she already had, not when she had other things she’d rather think about.

Her wedding day greeted her with rain — and her husband-to-be, uncharacteristically pensive, but however heavy his burdens, Makino knew how to ease the weight; the things to say, the touches to give, and where.

And she loved that, watching him come undone, driven to the brink and beyond, that unwavering strength and composure caving, surrendered willingly; his hand shaking in her hair, gripping her thigh, and her name invoked, stumbling on that sure, clever tongue. There was something about that kind of vulnerability, a moment that wasn’t weakness but that was still intimately exposed. And for someone like him, who was always more than he seemed, harder than his smiles and stronger than he appeared — to know that part of him, and the things he liked, that made his breath hitch like _that_ , and that left his loud laughter soft and winded…

She caught her own smile in the mirror — found it shameless, and with it, a laugh that she hadn’t touched in ten years, lifting her eyes to the bed behind her, reflected back at her in the surface of the looking glass, and the sprawl of his limbs across it. Shanks hadn’t stirred in an hour, and her gratification softened into pleasure, watching him sleep, so deeply he didn’t even snore.

It was the kind of morning that made her think of what things might be like, at some point in the future, the early hour softened with kisses, and sleepy laughter. He’d help with her opening routines, as he’d taken to doing (although after ten years apart, “help” consisted mostly of stealing touches in passing, and her kerchief from her hair), and when she _shooed_ him off with a laugh, would read the morning paper at the bar, and bat her own hands away when she forced his reading glasses onto his nose despite his protests that he wasn’t squinting at the articles, he was just deep in thought.

Her mornings had always been hers, and she’d loved that, once — the privacy and the quiet hours to herself. But he gave her that, too. He knew she liked her routines, and quiet to think, to plan for the day, and would only tease her so much, before easing himself into the quiet, claiming space for himself the way that came so naturally, but never more than he needed. Her mornings included him now. Her life, too.

If something happened to change that — if any of the thoughts she’d found behind his eyes earlier came to pass, whatever they were…

Resolving not to think about that, today of all days, Makino turned her attention instead to what awaited her. She braided her hair with flowers, like she’d always imagined she would; a silly, girlish indulgence that she’d thought would be her little secret, but she should have realised by now that very few things got by Shanks.

Then again, Makino didn’t know why she was surprised to discover that he recognised the small homage.

Having dressed as she finished with her hair, Shanks had left for the ship, with a lingering look that suggested he was considering making them both late for their own wedding, before she chased him off, shoulders loose and sheepish grin in place, and his laughter trailing behind him all the way down the stairs and out of her bar.

The rain had let up, lifting her heart with it, and with her hair intricately braided and full of flowers she put on the dress she’d made with her own two hands, taking a moment to look at herself, and to wonder at the alignment of things. The ten years behind her that seemed suddenly like the blink of an eye, even if she knew they’d been anything but that.

Suzume took one look at her as she walked down, then dropped her eyes lower, and snorted. “No panty-lines,” she mused, lifting her eyes back to Makino’s, severe face yielding a grin that didn’t quite manage to look as wicked as she was known for being, before she said, almost wistfully, “I’m so proud I could shed a tear.”

Expression enduring, Makino allowed the old woman her amusement — and her idea of last-minute wedding night advice, which mostly consisted of the various and creative uses of ship’s rope, and a list of roleplaying scenarios that could work aboard a pirate ship.

“I’m not suggesting that,” Makino said as they walked towards the docks, a counter to one particular scenario of _captain and stowaway_ , the cheerfully graphic details of which had left her regrettably flushed.

“Whyever the hell not? Red looks like he’d be up for that, and more besides.”

“ _Exactly_.”

The others were at the ship when she arrived, feet bare and the hem of her dress caught between her fingers, keeping it out of the dirt, and she paused by the docks, watching the large vessel idling in the water, and the sea where it stretched beyond it. The afternoon sun had begun its descent towards the horizon in the distance, and the East Blue was quiet, not even a breeze stirring the air, as though the sea was holding its breath.

She thought of the last time she’d stood here, ten years ago, watching the ship being loaded for departure.

As though having been thinking the same thing — “Been a damn long time since we stood here together,” Suzume said. Then with a snort, “I’d offer you a drink, for nostalgia’s sake, but this is Red’s wedding, so there’ll be enough of that to go around. You should pace yourself—you’re the biggest lightweight I’ve ever met.”

Makino felt her smile wavering. “I’m glad you stuck around, Suzume-san.”

She got a grumble for that, and a rough hand gripping her shoulder once, the touch anything but tender, but a comfort in its own way. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t have missed this, kid.”

The old woman made to trudge towards the gangway, but Makino lingered, watching some of the villagers following suit. An open invitation would see the ship filled for the wedding, although she doubted they’d all stick around for the party. Few could keep up with Shanks’ crew, in her experience. But it was nice, just having them there; the small show of support offered, not just for Makino, but the man she was marrying.

Then again, Shanks was a household favourite in Fuschia, at least barring a handful of stubborn souls still intent on keeping their reservations, although even Woop Slap had swallowed his pride for the occasion. He’d even offered to stand in, in lieu of a missing father-figure.

The reason hurt, and Makino spared a passing thought to Garp, wherever he was. She hadn’t told him she was getting married, and wondered now if she’d made the right choice — if he would have come, had she asked.

She didn’t know which thought weighed the heaviest on her shoulders — that he might have said _no_ if she had asked him, or that he might have said _yes_.

 _Too late for regrets now,_ she thought, resolute, and with a breath, made her way to the ship.

She’d reached the gangway by the time she saw Yasopp leaning over the railing — along with the rest of the crew, all of them scrambling for a place, as though to catch a glimpse.

Yasopp let loose a low whistle, his grin a flash of teeth in the sinking sun at his back. “Shite, Ma-chan. You could at least give the poor bastard a chance.”

He received a rousing holler of agreement from the pirates around him, followed by another round of whistles, and she looked up at them all, mouth pursing with a barely-contained smile. “He’s seen greater sights than a woman in a dress, surely,” she said, and resisted the urge to smooth her hands over the fabric, a sudden spark of nervousness leaving her hands restless.

Yasopp just grinned. The look in his eyes was curiously soft when he said, “Wouldn’t bet on it.”

Makino only shook her head, and when she walked up the gangway there were multiple hands offered to help her down, an exaggerated show of cheeky courtesy, and she batted them away fondly, before stepping onto the deck, letting them hem of her dress fall, to brush against her ankles.

Lifting her eyes, she found Shanks watching, expression the most open she’d ever seen it, not a trace of his usual humour to be found on his face, his jaw a little slack.

The reaction was worth the effort of achieving it, although she doubted it would have taken much. But the sight stilled her fretting hands, and when she made to walk across the deck towards him, the flutter in her stomach didn’t come from nervousness.

“Speechless, Captain?” she asked, stepping across the planks, cool under her feet. It had been raining earlier, but they were drying under the sun. “Must be a first.”

Shanks blinked, seeming to come back to himself, before an almost embarrassed smile chased across his mouth, followed by a laugh that sounded curiously out of breath.

“It's an occasion,” Ben offered from beside him, but his smile betrayed the deadpan quip.

Shanks didn’t even bother sticking his tongue out in response, eyes still on Makino. He touched his fingers to her shoulder, bared except for the thin straps of the dress. “I don’t know if I want to keep staring at you in this, or if I want to take it off you,” he said then, when he seemed to have found his voice again.

She didn’t succeed in hiding her delight. Then again, she wasn’t really trying. “So conflicted. And here you’re usually so steady in your course.”

He looked at her. “My course hasn’t been steady since the day I met you,” he told her, not a single trace of cheek or teasing in the speaking, and it was her turn to be speechless, Makino found, unable to even come up with a response to that.

“Are you two ready, or do you need another minute to ogle each other?” Ben was asking then, the dry remark easing itself into the stunned quiet between them, and Makino blinked.

This time Shanks did stick his tongue out, but his grin was infectious, and she wasn’t the only one feeling the effect of that, going by the expressions in the crowd gathered around them.

Shanks took her hand then, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with a smile she’d never seen before. “Ready?”

Before she could answer, a call from across the deck sounded, and Suzume’s voice —  _“Some of us have been ready for ten goddamn years, just marry her already so we can drink!”_

Makino heard the laughing agreement echoed across the people gathered, and ducked her head with an embarrassed laugh. But Shanks just curled his fingers around hers, tugging her closer, and for once said nothing, although the smile he gave her left no doubt of his thoughts.

The ceremony itself was short, nothing unnecessary included, but she missed half of what Ben was saying, distracted by the painfully wide grin looking back at her, and it was impossible keeping her own from mirroring it. And if she’d ever entertained the thought of a quietly dignified wedding, it was lost with the first laugh she had to suffocate with her palm when Shanks raised his brows suggestively, and she had to avert her eyes from the fondly long-suffering look Ben shot her, for interrupting him.

For his part, Shanks was rocking back on his heels, his whole body strung tight with anticipation, a picture of barely-contained giddiness that didn’t even try to be anything else, as Ben took his time pronouncing them husband and wife.

Shooting his restless captain a look, Ben sighed, but despite the familiar lament, his smile was unapologetic, as he said, “Just kiss your wife already.”

The flash of a grin was her only warning, and then he was doing just that, swallowing her laughter, rough fingers curving over her nape to tilt her head, slipping under the coil of her braid so as not to pull it loose, and the deafening chorus of hoots around them was drowned out by a kiss that claimed the whole of her, pulling her so close and reaching so deep that for a single second, everything around them seemed to stop.

Then Shanks was drawing back, a grinning kiss sketched to her brow, before announcing with a shout that it was time to drink, and in excess. And still breathless from the kiss, Makino pressed her laughter against his shirt, and the warm skin underneath; the heart that beat there, steady as the legs that kept him rooted to the deck under his feet.

The ceremonial sake cups were poured, three in turn, each for them to exchange and drink, their fingers bumping as they did, and she was dizzy already by the end, watching his grin curving behind the rim of his cup, and the promise in the eyes holding hers above it.

The alcohol coated her tongue and warmed her belly, and when she wound her arms around his neck to kiss him next it was his laughter she drank, filling up the rest of her, until she felt like she couldn’t take any more — that she’d burst from it soon, the warmth and the laughter. It was too much for any one person, Makino thought. Who could stand to be this happy?

The night passed her by in a blur, laughter and singing and the ceramic cup between her palms seeming never to empty. She felt mellow and lightheaded, half-delirious with happiness. She’d had no appetite to eat much, which probably wasn’t the best way to kick off a night of drinking, but it was hard to find the mind to care, with her husband claiming all her attention.

They were always touching. After ten years, it seemed like they were trying to bridge the gap by never being out of each other’s reach, and the few seconds they were separated she watched his eyes follow her across the deck, across the galley, until she felt warm for a completely different reason.

She was vaguely aware that her hair was coming loose, and there seemed to be flowers wherever she stepped, soft petals crumbling under her feet. The sea air offered a wet kiss of salt against her cheeks, and standing by the bow with the horizon beyond it, she could almost imagine what it would be like, miles away from Fuschia and the East Blue, a pirate in truth and the ship beneath her, not anchored to the port but cutting the waves. Her sea legs would be as sure as they were now, but even if they weren’t it wouldn’t matter, Makino thought, finding Shanks’ arm ready to steady her whenever she stumbled.

They moved the party inside after sundown, barely a hitch in the celebration, and between the never-ending well of sake and the people offering her their congratulations, it was all she could do to keep up.

She’d claimed a space for herself on one of the long benches in the galley when Shanks came to take a seat beside her, a glass of clear liquid put before her, along with a silent suggestion for her to drink it.

Makino stared at it. “Did we run out of sake cups?”

The look he gave her was patient. “It’s water. Drink it.”

She frowned at the glass, nose scrunching up, before lifting her eyes back to his with a pout. “I don’t want water. This is a  _party_.”

He pushed it towards her, undaunted by her protests. “And tomorrow won’t be one for you if you keep this up,” he told her. “Now drink.”

She looked at him. “Is that an order?”

Shanks raised a brow. “I _am_ the captain of this ship.”

“Does that mean I’m under your command?” Makino asked, leaning some of her weight on the table. She felt one of the straps of her dress slip down her shoulder, and saw the way his eyes tracked the movement.

Reaching out to tug it back up, “I see you skilfully trying to direct this conversation into suggestive territory, wife, and I’ll be happy to oblige once you finish that glass,” Shanks countered smoothly, before nudging it towards her.

She pursed her mouth to hide her smile, distracted from her feigned irritation by the designation that he'd offered so easily, as though it hadn't even required thought (wife, she was his _wife_ ), but the spark of challenge remained as she reached for the glass, and drank the whole thing, the water cooler than the sake where it slipped down her throat, but giving her none of the same, pleasant buzz.

She put it back down on the table with a decisive _thunk._ “Happy now, _Captain_?”

She couldn’t place his smile, but it was an unbearably tender thing. “More than I’ve ever been,” Shanks told her, and Makino blinked. It hadn’t sounded teasing. She’d expected teasing.

He was watching her now, expression still full of that hard-to-place feeling, but the affection behind his eyes was felt with a warm flutter in her stomach. Around them the revelry swelled and pushed, laughter and a hundred voices raising and falling as they stomped their feet in tune with the melody of a dirty old sailor song, but it seemed suddenly far away, nothing but muted noise, cocooning them in a private little vacuum where they sat at the heart of it all.

Her braid was about to fall apart, all her careful work coming undone, the coiled bun hanging heavy against her nape, just a few flowers left, nestled in the folds; the rest were littered across the deck and the galley. Shanks looked more presentable, although he hadn’t put half the effort she had into dressing up, at least not beyond the claim that the cloak was new, but he’d taken that off a while ago, the near-stifling temperature of the galley rendering it excessive.

Now he was in his shirtsleeves, and Makino stared at the half-buttoned front, fingers twitching with a sudden impulse to reach out to touch him. Normally she wouldn’t, not with so many people around, but with him sitting so close, she couldn’t seem to remember why she had those reservations.

Shuffling closer, she watched his brows lifting with a smile, and when she reached up to touch his chest he ducked his head to press a kiss to her forehead, but didn’t move to touch her further.

Makino wanted to tell him that she didn’t mind, but it felt like such an effort putting the words together, when all she wanted was to lean into his frame. With all the people in it, the galley was plenty warm, but she still inched closer, chasing the warmth rising from his skin where his shirt hung open.

“Are you trying to climb into my lap?” she heard then, his amusement tumbling out with a chuckle.

She hummed, feeling how it rose up her chest, a warm note to the sound. “Trying,” she told him pertly. “You could be more helpful.”

His hand came to steady her shoulder, a shock of warmth against her bare skin that tempted her to lean into the touch, before he made to settle it over her hip. He was sitting the opposite way on the bench from her, his back leaned against the table.

He was really warm. It was a little distracting, like the partially naked chest, and the fact that she could tell just what kind of effect she was having on him, sitting so close. She couldn’t seem to keep her thoughts on a straight path, to remember that she wasn’t usually this brazen, and it was a feat keeping herself from just reaching out to touch her hand to the bulge in his pants.

Redirecting her thoughts with some effort, Makino reached up to touch his hair instead, combing her fingers through it where it fell against his neck. She really loved his hair. Had she told him that?

“When we have kids,” she said then, and watched his brows jump upwards in surprise. “I want them to have your hair. Redheads. All of them. So many redheads. At least three. Maybe four. _Four_ redheads. All ours.”

Shanks was looking at her strangely, jaw slack and his expression an entirely new one, although it wasn’t any easier to decipher than his earlier look, but then everything seemed a bit difficult right now. Sitting up straight, for one, and she was glad of his hand on her hip.

“What?” she asked then, grinning, and found him blinking, as though he’d been lost in thought. “What did I say?” What _had_ she said? It was difficult focusing, especially when he was looking at her like _that,_ as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her senseless or take her to his cabin.

She was about to suggest the last one, when she felt the weight of his hand leaving her hip, before his fingers touched her cheek. “I love you,” he told her, seriously. “My drunk, wonderfully eloquent wife.”

She felt her smile. It hurt her cheeks. “Alcohol makes me really articulate,” she said.

“I’m surprised you can pronounce the word articulate, in your state.”

“Mm, I’m not that drunk. I’m a barmaid, Shanks. I know how to hold my alcohol.”

“You know there’s a difference between holding a bottle of alcohol, and alcohol tolerance, right?”

“ _Hey_.” She tried to point at him, but aiming felt a little beyond her current capabilities, so she forfeited the attempt. “I have tolerance. I’ve tolerated a _lot_ of things,” she told him, poking his chest once, before she paused, distracted by the sight, and the hard muscles. He was ridiculously built.

“Ridiculously?” Shanks asked, and Makino realised she must have said the last bit out loud.

She shook her head, and poked his chest again. “Stop distracting me when I’m trying to make a point!” she told him, and found him pressing his lips together to suppress his smile. But even that was distracting, with that obscenely attractive mouth.

She focused on his eyes instead, brimming with warm amusement. “I've endured a lot is what I'm saying. I‘m a spinster, you know?” Makino said. This was important, she felt. “That’s what people say. Well, joke’s on them, that ship has _sailed_.” For emphasis, she waved her hand to the galley around them, and the ring around her finger distracted her for a moment from the point she was making. “Wait,” she said then, frowning up at him. “What was I saying?”

Shanks’ smile was soft. “Spinsters,” he told her. Then he blinked, his brows knitting. “Have we had this exact conversation before?”

Makino waved him off. “I could have been one,” she announced, a little wistfully, plucking at one of the buttons on her dress. “A spinster. I can’t spin, though. Would have had to learn, probably. So much _work_. And just to be alone.”

She felt his hand as it covered hers, stilling her fretting. The wedding band around his finger caught in the low light, and for a moment it held her whole attention, as Shanks said, “Then it’s probably a good thing you don’t have to learn. Unless you really want to. I've heard of stranger hobbies.”

Eyes on the ring, Makino hummed. “Yeah,” she said. Then with a sigh, she lifted her eyes to his. Her throat felt suddenly thick. “I’m really glad you came back.”

He smiled. “Yeah?”

She curled her fingers around one of his. There was a pale scar running across his knuckles, disappearing under the metal band. “Yeah,” she murmured.

Shanks was quiet, which she had a mind to point out wasn’t like him, given the circumstances. He was always the loudest contributor to a party, but he seemed happy to sit with her now, while the celebration churned around them.

She had a mind to point that out, too, but couldn’t seem to focus her thoughts long enough to explain what she meant. His hand was warm in hers, his palm rough, old sword-callouses catching against the pads of her fingers when she ran them lightly across it.

“So. Four, huh?” Shanks asked then, when she’d gotten lost tracing the lines in his palm.

Makino blinked. It felt like it took more effort than it should. What had they been talking about? “Four what?”

His smile was strange, touching the corners of his eyes. She thought he looked pleased, but she couldn’t remember what she’d said to prompt that look.

“The amount of cups you’ve had in the last hour, I suspect,” he told her, and she frowned, before her smile brightened.

“Would you get me another one?”

He looked at her, expression one of enduring affection now. “I’d rather you have another glass of water,” he said.

“How are you the voice of restraint, suddenly? You _love_ drinking.”

“Yes,” he told her, patiently. “And I have a pretty high tolerance for it. You, my girl, don’t.”

She waved him off — or tried to, only to end up lightly slapping his chest instead. “I’m trying to build one here,” Makino said. “If I’m going to be a pirate, I need it.”

That made his grin widen, and there was a sudden fierceness of feeling in his expression. “You’ll be a fearsome pirate, I wager. Even with a low tolerance for drink.”

“Would you want me there, though?” she asked then. Someone had told her that he wouldn’t. Who had told her that?

Shanks stilled. A frown had wiped off his smile. “What?”

“On your ship,” she elaborated, gesturing to the galley around them. “Pirating. Camping. Whatever you do on your voyages.”

She didn’t like the expression on his face, Makino decided. It looked all _wrong_.

“Why would you think I wouldn’t want you there?” Shanks asked. And his voice sounded wrong, too, except she couldn’t put her finger on what was off about it.

She’d said something wrong, hadn’t she? Drinking always loosened her tongue. “I don’t know,” Makino said honestly, frowning at the empty glass in front of her. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Shanks looked ready to say something, when she smiled. Somehow, his reaction made her happy, although she didn't understand why. “I’m glad, though,” she told him, seriously. “I wouldn’t want to have to be a stowaway. Unless we’re being dirty, _then_ I can be a stowaway. Suzume said it was really fun. Something about ship’s rope and walking the plank.” She patted his chest. “You’ll be the captain. I’ll even say ‘aye’ this time.”

He was gaping a bit, and for a moment, seemed at a complete loss for words. Then with a shake of his head, “Okay,” he said. “Just to clear up any confusion, I have never not wanted you with me. I spent ten years regretting that I didn’t just kidnap you when I had the chance. Ask anyone. I’ve been insufferable.”

Her smile came, goofy and delighted, and she caught the twinkle in his eyes before he added, but not with the same severity as before, “Also, we are so getting back to that whole stowaway idea, maybe at a point where you’re a little more sober.”

“Sobriety has never solved anything,” Makino told him breezily. “You used to say that was your motto.”

“Which just goes to show that you should never listen to what I say,” Shanks countered. “That’s _Ben’s_ motto.”

She grinned. “I love listening to you. You have a really nice voice. Makes me all tingly.”

“Oh yeah?” His laugh sounded rich and pleased, prompting a shiver, and she was tempted to reiterate her earlier point. “Not only am I ridiculously built and with great hair, now it’s my voice, too? You’re very free with your compliments when you’re drunk.”

Makino hummed. “Don’t tell Ben I said all that,” she said, before her brows drew together. “Or—wait, was I not supposed to tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

She looked at him, blinking her eyes heavily. The cut of his jaw looked sharper in the dim light, and his thicker stubble casting darker shadows on his cheeks. Even the scars bisecting his eye looked more severe, standing out against his skin.

He really was unreasonably attractive. How was that fair to anyone?

“That you’re really pretty. That also makes me feel tingly,” she said, and felt the ache where it came to settle between her legs. The urge to touch him was suddenly replaced with the urge to have him touching her. Makino resolved to tell him, but she had to finish her thought first. It seemed suddenly important that he know. “A lot of barmaids think so, too. And guys half your age. That’s what Ben said.” She paused. “I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that.”

“Oh, there are _so_ many things we need to get back to when you’re sober,” Shanks told her. He sighed a laugh, and when he rose to his feet, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, along with the words, “I’m getting you more water, or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

She looked up at him, grinning down at her. Her husband now, and for a moment she couldn’t seem to think past that realisation where it found her, filling her with new warmth. And she’d forgotten what he’d said she’d regret, but didn’t think it mattered. She’d never had any regrets with him.

And so, “No,” Makino said, honestly, and with a grin that _hurt_. “I won’t.”

 

—

 

She might have eaten her own words, if she’d remembered actually speaking them.

Of course, the partial blackout and accompanying hangover wasn’t the most unforgiving thing about the morning after their wedding.

“Morning, Makino,” came the too-cheerful greeting, stepping into the galley to find it already full, and the crew busy eating breakfast.

Having extracted herself from Shanks — with difficulty, between trying to regain control of her limbs and evading the reaching fingers that had sought to tempt her into staying a little longer — she’d gone in search of something to eat, to sate the hunger gnawing at her stomach, and something to help ease the blinding headache throbbing behind her brow, which was making it difficult to focus past what was immediately in front of her. God, she’d never been this hungover in her _life._

She had to blink her eyes a few times to focus on the room — and the faces grinning back at her from the crowded tables.

The fact that she actually had to glance down to make sure she’d remembered to put on clothes was testament to just how sluggish her thoughts were, but she was fully clothed, her wedding dress a bit rumpled and her hair in tangles around her shoulders, but nothing to warrant the shit-eating grins lighting up the whole galley.

“Good morning,” she greeted back warily, as she moved towards the long table in the middle, and tried not to focus too much on the eyes following her as she approached. Why were they all _smiling_ like that?

Yasopp’s grin was the widest. “Glad you could come join us for breakfast,” he said. “I know the honeymoon’s just begun. Might take a while for you to come out of that newlywed bliss, but we appreciate you coming to spend some time with the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” someone agreed, as a space was cleared for her on the bench. “Come have a seat, Ma-chan!”

Someone put a plate of food down before her, and a glass of water that begged her parched mouth, as she eased herself onto the bench.

“Coffee?” came the question, asked loud enough that she winced in response. Her head felt like it was about to roll off her shoulders, and whoever had asked sounded far too bubbly — and for some reason curiously delighted, as they added, “Comes fresh from the pot.”

She blinked her eyes once. Her eyelids felt heavy. “Coffee sounds good,” she murmured, and couldn’t even guess why their grins looked even wider now. What was going on?

“How’s the hangover coming along?” Yasopp asked her then, as someone poured her a cup. Beside him, Makino caught Doc shaking his head, but he appeared to be struggling to contain his own smile. Ben wasn’t even trying.

Confused, she reached for her cup, bypassing the plate of food, and the freshly cooked eggs that made her stomach turn over. The long table was laden with leftovers from the wedding feast, salted fish and cured meats and fresh fruit dripping with honey, most of which she hadn't had the stomach to muster on the day itself, butterflies filling it instead. And sake.

She slid a despairing glance at the mugs of thick, frothy ale scattered among the plates, moisture beading on the glass like it did her brow. This wasn't a crew that shied away from day-drinking, even after a party that had lasted the whole night and then some, although Makino couldn't say the same for herself. But the coffee smelled as dark as it looked, and seemed a small godsend, warming her palms where she cradled the cup.

“It’s the worst I’ve ever had,” she admitted at length, her mouth so dry it was an effort just shaping the words to speak.

Yasopp nodded, the gesture hinting at sympathy, although his grin looked anything but. “I’ve been there,” he said. “Parched mouth. Headache’s as bad as they come.”

A murmur of agreement from around him, before someone chirped, “It comes for all of us, Makino.”

“Comes with being a pirate,” someone else agreed, sounding like they were struggling to hold back their laughter.

Makino was having trouble following, and to make sense of why they were all so _amused_ , but when she tried to collect her still-scrambled thoughts they only slipped through her fingers. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee, hoping it would help.

“Did you finish?” Yasopp asked, nodding at her cup when she put it down on the table. “Or do you still have a little way to go?”

Something about the way he said it made her pause, but she couldn’t seem to connect the words with the expression on his face — and the grin. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said cheerfully, lifting his own cup to his mouth. Makino caught Ben shaking his head, smiling down at the newspaper in his lap. A glance at his pocket-watch, and Doc flipped him a coin, which he caught without glancing up from the paper.

“So,” Yasopp said then, sharp eyes gleaming, his expression suddenly, intently focused — the kind of look Makino recognised from right before he landed an impossible shot. “Is Boss coming?”

She stared at him, the last word seeming to clang throughout her head, louder than the headache.

Then she remembered — laughing so hard her chest hurt, and Shanks’ shoulder digging into her ribs. _Have a good night, gentlemen,_ and _thank you all for—_

“Oh _god_.”

Yasopp was grinning. They all were. “You tell us,” he said. “Was that how it went?”

Someone let loose a loud _whoop_. Makino had been about to repeat the mortified exclamation, but Yasopp’s words had halted the ones on her tongue, and she suffocated a whimper with her palms instead.

The laughter around her rose like the heat in her cheeks, and there were hands on her back, their good humour evident in the nudges that failed to be convincingly sympathetic, and the hangover was forgotten under the rush of embarrassment where it washed over her.

The door to the galley opened then, and Shanks was there, blinking at the laughter that greeted him — and Makino, trying her best to sink through the bench, face buried in her hands. “What did I miss?”

“Slept well, Cap?” Yasopp asked, to another round of hoots and laughter. Makino felt Shanks stepping up behind her, and the touch of his fingers against her neck, carding through her hair.

“Hangover that bad, huh?” he asked, genuine sympathy in his voice — and something fondly chiding. “I told you that you’d regret it. That amount of sake all at once will come back to haunt you. My first real hangover doesn’t even come close to this one.”

Makino whimpered, sinking lower in her seat as another wave of laughter rolled across the galley, and Shanks blinked, lifting his eyes to sweep his gaze across his crew, smile puzzled.

“What did I say?”

 

—

 

They stole a moment to themselves after breakfast, sorely needed in Makino’s case, still battling a relentless headache, and the slow-creeping and horrified realisation of some of the things she’d proceeded to announce the night before, drunk off so much happiness and sake, she’d apparently lost all her sense and better judgement — and her shame, having come loose and fallen like the petals in her hair, small and forgotten.

But their good-natured teasing hadn’t been unkindly meant, and the echo of their laughter lingered, a gentler ache than the one pressing between her brows. She still felt parched, and there was a kink in her shoulder from having slept oddly, entangled in an exhausted knot of limbs heavy from a long day of anticipation and drinking, and a bone-deep climax that had sent them both off to sleep.

Those memories were still coming back to her, although with more kindness than the ones that had greeted her in the galley with the crew — the sprawl of him beneath her, and his fingers cresting her hip, seeking the arching bone and the heat between her legs.

It had been a languid affair, all soft, breathless laughter and slow touches, like coaxing embers into a steady flame, not a roaring fire. He’d dragged the remaining flowers from her hair and her breath from her chest, and she’d come apart, spine arching against the worn mattress of his bunk and murmuring with the steady thrusts, a plea for absolution spoken with shaking, wordless touches, filled with the length of him but _teetering_ , still.

She never came quickly, or easily, like the books always said, but he’d never once treated that as a hindrance, or an annoyance — just a challenge, met with his usual vigour, and he’d brought her plummeting down with touches that _knew_ , every crease and hollow of her body and the soul beneath, and what it took to unravel both. The slow circle of his thumb against her, and the order, spoken against her ear, into her skin. _Come, Makino—_

“Makino?”

She blinked slowly, and realised she’d stopped walking, finding Shanks standing a few paces ahead, looking back at her, expression one of bemusement. “Huh?”

His smile widened, shifting into something that hinted at understanding, but the knowing tilt to his mouth wasn’t shaped into words, even as he turned towards her fully, waiting for her to catch up.

They’d been walking along the beach, Fuschia far at their backs now, hidden behind a crag jutting from the island and into the water — a great, jagged rock with moss crawling from the top, and twisting vines curling around the roots of a tree perched precariously on the edge, as though leaning over to look at its reflection in the water, crystal clear where it kissed the shore.

“Where did you go, hmm?” he asked, with the inflection that told her he was well aware, as she came to a stop, shielding her eyes from the sun to look up at him. The sand warmed her bare feet, but her legs felt as heavy and uncooperative as the rest of her body.

Shanks didn’t seem to be having the same problems. Or if he did, he was better at hiding it.

“How are you so _perky_?” she asked, and heard from the slight croak to her voice that she sounded as bad as she probably looked, although the expression on Shanks’ face told another story.

“Years of practice,” he told her brightly, and Makino heard his laughter, soft and adoring when she stifled a whimper, palm pressed to her throbbing brow, the skin slick with sweat where her fingers met it.

She felt his hand reaching up, the tender tuck of her hair behind her ear, and curbed a grimace as it snagged on his fingers, but, “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never looked as good as you do, hungover out of my mind,” Shanks told her, and she nearly spluttered a laugh, but found from the quirk of his brows that he was entirely in earnest.

Makino didn’t know what he was seeing, to say that with a straight face, and had a thought to suggest that he needed more than reading glasses. She hadn’t brushed her hair, and had changed out of her wedding dress, having rooted out a pair of his old capris and shirt, both far too big, but loose and airy in the sweltering heat where she’d left the collar unbuttoned and tied the pants tight at the waist.

She caught how his gaze lingered, something unreadable in his expression, although the slight tilt at the corners of his eyes hinted at some softness that felt rare and treasured — that felt like _hers_ , the sudden, near-possessive thought followed, coming to settle behind her ribs with a flutter.

Watching him, she thought suddenly of the first newspaper after the war — his face on the front page, the too-hard features and the sharp downwards slant of the mouth she’d only ever seen smiling. The press had its circus to advertise, and profited more off terror than truth. The readers thrived off it, too; that fear. Red-Haired Shanks the Emperor, who was in the eyes of the world no different than the three others who held claim to the same title.

Makino didn’t know that pirate; the one the newspapers had written about. But even if she hadn’t recognised the expression on his face, or the words accompanying it, she’d known the man behind them — hers, too, even if the sea wanted her part, and the Government and the world.

She remembered what he’d told her, of fidelity on the sea. And she hadn’t doubted that he’d been in earnest — hadn’t thought for a second that he’d been lying when he’d looked at her and told her there hadn’t been anyone else. But there were different contenders competing for pieces of him than lovers in other ports, and Makino felt even less inclined to share him with them — the things he still felt he had to do, before the sea would let him go.

The strange, quiet anger prompted by the thought didn’t help her headache, and she pressed the heel of her palm to her brow, hoping to alleviate the pressure somewhat.

“You know what always helps a hangover?” Shanks asked then, and when she raised her eyes she found his own trained on the surf, and the white horizon in the distance. The day was bleeding heat; Makino felt it on her skin, in her lungs.

And if she hadn’t been so distracted by it, and the hangover in question, she might have recognised his grin sooner — and realised what it meant, that wolfish crookedness that spoke of mischief in the making.

But as it was, the unforgiving headache was preventing her from noticing anything beyond it, and so, “What?” Makino asked, pinching the bridge of her nose. It didn’t really help.

“A dip in the sea,” Shanks chirped, sounding far too cheerful for just how spectacularly poorly she was feeling, and that he had to be feeling, even with his claim of practice. He’d had at least as much to drink as she had.

Frown dipping, Makino rubbed at her eyes. It was hard to string something coherent together from what he was saying. “In the sea?”

But he was already moving, unfastening his pants, and realisation washed over her before her horror did, but by then it was already too late, and he’d shucked both his pants and his shirt, leaving them in the sand without a second glance as he strode into the surf.

Mortification pierced his name with a shrill note as she raised her voice to shriek after him, “ _Shanks_!”

He turned, the water sloshing around his legs, grinning—looking entirely pleased with himself, and undeterred by the fact that he was stark naked. The sun lit his skin, darkened by years of similar kisses, the silver-white scars she could seek with her eyes closed standing out, bright like the grin on his face, beckoning her forward to touch him. Heat bloomed in her stomach as she dragged her eyes down his body, to the sharp jut of his hips, and his cock, cheerfully hard as he watched her back without shame.

And mortification had nothing to do with the fierce blush alighting under her skin now, turning her breath to a shudder even as she hissed, casting a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the village, “Someone might see!”

“So?”

Makino gaped. Her voice sounded alarmingly high when she parroted his casual query back. “ _So_?”

Brows raised, Shanks turned fully towards her, as though to emphasise his point, and Makino fought to keep her gaze fixed firmly on his face, and from dropping lower, following the dark hairs sweeping down his sculpted chest, to the toned muscles of his abdomen where they gathered in a thick trail, marking a sharp downwards dip straight to his cock.

By the wicked curve to his grin, Makino knew she was hiding nothing, more exposed than even he was, and yet still fully dressed. “You’re seeing,” Shanks pointed out, voice warmed with palpable delight.

Still a little on edge, Makino resisted the urge to stomp her foot. “Well—you’re making it hard not to!”

“Who’s making what hard now?” came the cheeky counter, and if she’d had something to throw at him, she would have done so.

Another half-panicked glance over her shoulder revealed no one else around, and they were far enough away from the village that they weren’t likely to run into anyone, but there was an unreasonable amount of worry nudging up her chest at the prospect that they might.

His look softened a bit then, although the smile stayed in place. “There’s no one around,” he told her. “I’d tell you if there were.”

Makino bit her lip, eyes once again on the water, turquoise-bright and enticing in the midday heat—and Shanks, inviting for a whole other reason. And he wouldn’t have said it if he wasn’t sure, she knew that. He’d always respected her desire for privacy, even if he took great pleasure in teasing her about it.

She considered him, standing naked in the surf, beautiful in a way that left her short of breath, the water pushing against his knees and the sea stretching out behind him towards the horizon—traced the familiar lines of his body, bared to her eyes; the broad expanse of his chest tapering to his waist, and the strong thighs. His eyes were hooded, his smile warm and softly mischievous, curled lazily along the sensual mouth that knew every part of her, and intimately.

She didn’t know what came over her. Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe she was still a little bit drunk, but then she was unbuttoning the shirt, and she watched as his grin widened, pleased and ever-laughing as she let it slip from her shoulders and pushed his pants down her legs.

She was running for the water before she could talk herself out of it, or think too closely about what she was actually _doing_ , drawn by his laughter, and the sight of him, naked and reaching for her.

Despite the temperature, the water was a shock of cold against her legs, the half-springing steps jarring her enough to leave her head spinning, but then he’d caught her, his skin warm when he pulled her against him, his arm cinched so tight around her waist it almost hurt.

“You’re very convincing when you’re naked,” she told him with a breath, and felt his laughter now, the sound rooted deep in his chest where it was pressed against hers.

“Noted,” came the murmured retort, and his smile, seeming never far from his words — or from her, which left a warm curl of pleasure in her gut, despite the cold water.

She felt goosebumps rising on her skin, before his mouth sought them, first a lingering kiss to her shoulder, seeming to seek the pale freckles there, before marking the dip of her collar, pausing just at the juncture of her neck, a breath above her sternum. The weight of his palm on her lower back eased loose a sigh, and when he kissed his way down her chest Makino allowed her eyes to slip shut, forgetting the urge to look over her shoulder.

His mouth on her breast drew a small droplet of a sound into the air, his beard scuffing her skin, and the slow, teasing circle of his tongue around her nipple was felt all the way down her legs, buckling her knees as she braced herself against him.

She felt his hand tightening on the small of her back, right above her ass. His large frame was pressed flush against hers, his skin hot and his cock hard where it nudged against her stomach. Hands gripping his sides, Makino made to reach for him—

“Still warm,” she heard him say, almost musingly, the words spoken against her skin with the barest nip of his teeth, the twinge of pain exquisitely distracting. It was hard to concentrate with his mouth on her breast. “We should do something about that.”

She blinked her eyes open heavily. Her breaths were coming harder, her voice a soft shudder. “What are you—”

His hand leaving her back registered a moment too late, and she wasn’t given the chance to realise what he had in mind before he’d nudged her backwards.

Weak-kneed from his earlier attentions, Makino went down with a yelp, only to land flat on her ass in the water, just deep enough to submerge her whole for a single second, before panic shoved up her chest with a shout as she scrambled in the surf, spluttering and coughing, and his laughter ringing in her ears, loud in the quiet afternoon.

Looking up at him through the soaked veil of her hair, Makino found him grinning down at her.

“I did say a dip _in_ the sea,” Shanks told her, and when she made to grab for him, evaded her reach with infuriating grace, sending her further fumbling through the shallow water, his laughter rising again, the loudest she’d ever heard it.

He held his hand out then, the gleam in his eyes telling her she could put her whole weight behind it but it wouldn’t make a difference, and with a faltering glare she tucked her fingers into his palm and allowed him to help her up.

“Was that really necessary?” she asked, as she regained her footing, the wet sand soft between her toes, but his grip on her elbow keeping her steady.

Shanks’ look was adoring. “If you could see yourself now, you wouldn’t be asking me that.”

She sighed, and when he laughed next it was a softer sound, before he curved his hand around the back of her neck, fingers snagging in her wet hair, hanging soaked and dripping down her back. And she found his forgiveness begged with the touch of his mouth against hers, tempting the corners to lift, before moving to her cheek, her jaw, her nose and the corners of her eyes as he kissed the water from her skin.

She heard more than felt his grin when he asked, a murmur against her temple, “Am I forgiven?”

Her huff didn’t hold any bite. “If this is your idea of seeking forgiveness, it’s even worse than your idea of a proposal.”

“She says, and yet still married me,” Shanks retorted, kissing her mouth, first lightly, then deeper, the persuasive slant of his smile keenly familiar.

Makino nipped her retort against his bottom lip, and felt his hand cradling the back of her head, tilting it to deepen the kiss, and she couldn’t have feigned her irritation if she’d tried.

And she thought she might have enjoyed dunking him in the water, if only to watch his composure slipping, but there were other ways of regaining her balance where that was concerned.

She allowed her hands to slide down his chest, palms swept lightly over his abdomen before she curled her fingers gently around his cock, pleasure plummeting deep in her gut at the groan that shuddered out of him when she trailed her fingertips down the length of it in an excruciatingly tender stroke, her own hum small, delighting in his large size, imagining it inside her, buried to the hilt.

Emboldened by his reaction, she repeated the motion, her grip around him a little firmer this time as she pumped her hand, setting a steady rhythm, feeling how he fit into her palm, big and hard and slick with his own arousal, and how he unwound under her touches, each stroke nudging him closer to the brink.

The pad of her thumb pressed against the base of his head, rubbing gently, and Makino smiled when he broke the kiss, the tuck of his nose into the crook of her neck yielding a rasping breath, heaved as though for lack of air. His hand fisted in her hair, gripping it at her nape.

“You’ll end up in the water at this rate,” Makino said, the light sweep of her fingers over his head causing him to surrender some of his weight, and she felt how his knees shook. Kissing his shoulder, she added with a murmur, “And I’d prefer we do this a bit more horizontally, since we don’t have a single pair of sea legs between us right now.”

Shanks’ laughter sounded helpless, and she tightened her grip once, before allowing her fingers to go slack, cupped loosely around his cock, and the next sound that left him held enough unmet need that it made her smile curve against his skin. She mouthed another kiss to his shoulder, and heard from his breathing that she'd gained the upper hand, although the fact that he didn't have any cheeky remarks to offer up was the most telling thing by far.

His fingers followed the slope of her spine, carding through the tangles of her hair where it hung, a wet curtain down her back, before he squeezed her ass, the query silent but clear. And when she jumped up he caught her, legs wrapping around his waist, settling some of her weight on his hips as he braced the rest with his arm.

She felt him keenly, his rock hard erection pressing hot against her centre, and gasped the words against his mouth, “If you drop me now I’m taking you with me.” Legs tightening around his waist in a not-too-tender warning, his response dissolved in a wordless groan when she sank a bit further down, rubbing against his cock, but he didn’t falter as he waded through the surf and out of the water.

Kneeling, he put her down in the sand, atop the pile of their discarded clothes, and when she locked her ankles behind his back and gave a tug he caught himself against her, laughing into her mouth.

“You know,” Shanks said, easing himself atop her, seeking a comfortable position, and Makino let a moan trickle out when the tip of him brushed against her entrance. “This is pretty public, even if we’re the only ones around. You sure you’re up for this?”

Breaking the kiss, she looked up at him, the sun outlining the shape of him above her. His hair was damp and curling, falling into his eyes, and seawater peppered his skin, sliding down the hard planes of his chest.

The throbbing ache at her core made it unbearable to even consider extracting herself from him, and just the thought had a sob building in her throat. And she thought, deliriously, that she’d happily risk discovery if he would just _take her already._

“You’ll make sure?” Makino asked, and saw him nod, but the kiss pressed to her brow was her answer, slow and tender, even as she heard from his breath that he was struggling to hold back.

Her trust required no thinking, and so neither did her decision, and, “Okay,” she said, that now-familiar answer offered, curiously theirs, and it had barely slipped from her tongue before Shanks had claimed it.

He kissed her hard — hungrily, the kind of kiss that left no room for breath, and when he pulled away she gasped for air, chest heaving under the trail of kisses marking a path down her chest, her skin still wet from her earlier dip in the sea, and the hard frame of his naked body over hers left her limbs shaking, an acute pang of desire that lanced through her system when he parted her legs and swept his tongue across her sex.

His fingers slipped under her knee, teasing the soft skin there, before sliding up her thigh, over the crest of her hip to settle across her stomach as he sank against her, into her, meeting her when she arched her hips towards his mouth. The sand roughened her skin, the heap of fabrics under her back doing little to soothe the slight burn, but the discomfort was fleeting with the feel of him, his mouth seeming hotter than even the heat at her centre, begging a mewl from the back of her throat. Makino stifled the moan against her wrist.

“No one is going to hear,” she heard him murmur, and felt his laughter against her when she gripped his hair; a warm, breathy chuckle.

“You do the honours, then,” she gasped, an attempt at a teasing reproach, but it didn’t quite succeed, and despite her efforts Makino heard the whimpering plea where it slipped past her lips as he rubbed the tip of his tongue lightly over her clit, licking her, quickly and gently and prolonging the sound; the soft little noise caught in her throat as she squirmed beneath him.

“I’d rather listen to you,” Shanks said, pausing for a breath, only to repeat the movement, but this time with more care, and the choked cry that left her sounded suddenly, alarmingly loud in the open air. “Like that, huh?” he laughed, and she couldn’t even formulate an answer, lost when he did it again, and again, the little licks unbearably light as he fucked her with his tongue, slowly eating her out until she felt close to sobbing.

She felt his grin with a startled jerk, and the murmur that followed, preceding the slow curl of his tongue inside her, “One more time, my girl.”

The sound that left her didn’t care if anyone heard it.

She couldn't even find it in herself to think about it, lost under his attentions; that torturously careful devouring. He was always good at making her feel _good_  — always so eager to seek new ways to learn her, to know what made her laugh, and her breath hitch, and how to yield sounds from her that Makino didn’t even know she had in herself to make. And it shouldn’t surprise her, but the events of the past few days had done a bigger number on her enduring heart than the past ten years put together, and so when he sought those little things (a fleeting question kissed against the supple inside of her thigh, to the sweet ache between her trembling legs), Makino gave all of herself back, and without shame.

Her body felt rigid, her muscles taut with tension, the whole of her begging release, and oh, she was close, so close all she had to do was tilt her hips against his mouth a bit, and if she calmed her breathing it would probably do it, but there was another need now, clawing through the feverish haze where she perched on the edge.

She tugged at his hair, shaking fingers gripping it at his nape, before she flattened her palms over his broad back, the jut of his shoulder blades shifting under his skin, slick with sweat and seawater, and the vicious scar tissue climbing up from the stump of his arm rubbing against her hand when she reached down to cradle it, urging him back up.

“You okay?” Shanks asked, panting a wet, laughing kiss against her mouth. Makino tasted herself, the tang of her arousal sharp even as the kiss was tender, and when she tried for a nod her head felt too heavy for it.

She murmured, “I want—”

A lingering brush of his mouth to the corner of her jaw, seeking her pulse where it throbbed under her skin. His voice was low purr. “What do you want?”

“I want you in me,” she breathed, her own voice little more than a shiver, but the urgency was clear, and the need to have him so great she felt mad from it. The hangover seemed suddenly kinder, the unforgiving headache more merciful than this, although she forgot both within a single breath when Shanks pushed himself up, kissed her firmly and thrust inside her.

Her sigh held a moan in it, delicious relief and an ever-deepening need colliding together as they did, the buck of his hips meeting hers, again and again as the thick length of him slid in and out of her, the feeling building in her chest, rising up under her skin with feverish heat, until she could barely take any more. Head tipped back and her throat bared, she canted her hips a little, welcoming him deeper, her breath rushing out with a moan when he hit _that_ spot, her warmth stretching around his cock as he moved with her, the friction like a match lit, fizzling behind her eyes, along her skin and deep inside her.

Her eyes fluttered open, finding the gulls circling overhead, the open sky their only witness. Her breaths were coming faster, saltwater slipping down her temples from her hair, and the sea was on her skin and in her lungs and in her nose, the rest filled with him, and oh— _oh_ —!

When he pushed this time she let herself fall, finding a deep chuckle offered into the crook of her neck when she didn’t even try to stifle the cry that pulled from her lips, a surrender of more than just her voice.

She felt Shanks following, the release like he'd been holding back, lost with a groan that shook under her hands, pressed against his spine as his hips gave a sharp jerk. He was gone for a breath, but coming down with him, Makino didn’t think about the possibility of someone stumbling upon them. She didn’t need the assurance, having already found it; little, wordless truths and a trust felt in touches, in the trembling kiss to her temple, but that were no less important than everything else they’d offered each other in words — like the vows on their wedding day, and all the promises before them.

 

—

 

“Beach sex should not be advertised the way it is,” Makino announced later, the village coming into view, the white-hot sky deepening with blues and lilacs as the late afternoon sighed into early evening. The temperature was a supple caress along her skin, no longer the scalding flush of the midday sun. “I have sand where sand should never be.”

Shanks’ grin was far too wide for agreement. “Let me guess—your books failed to mention sand actually being a fairly unavoidable part of it?”

She gave him a playful shove, although it didn’t succeed in catching him off balance, and she heard his laughter as it fell into the air, loud and delighted. “None of those writers conducted any actual research,” Makino said. “Or if they did, they glossed over that bit.”

“Mm, yeah. I imagine they mostly focus on the sensual stripping of laced bodices and truly impractical amounts of leather,” Shanks mused, before raising his brows. “Let me tell you though, there’s nothing sexy about trying to get out of wet leather.”

“Since when have you ever worn anything with leather?” she asked, eyes sweeping over his shape, as though to emphasise her point, his clothes rumpled and his hair still damp, clinging to his neck. “I’ve only ever seen you in this ensemble. Or naked.”

The _grin_ that remark earned her told her she’d regret asking — and that he wasn’t going to let that last part pass. “I am a man of simple trappings,” Shanks agreed. “But I can tell you’re intrigued now.” When she levelled him with a look, his smile only brightened. “You can’t fool me, my dear. Want to hear the story about the leather? It ends with me naked, if that’s any incentive. Knowing you, it should be.”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

His grin hadn’t lessened, and she felt her own where it responded, silly and entirely in spite of herself.

She was also making a rather poor show of _not_ imagining him in an impractical amount of leather, but thankfully, Shanks seemed happily inclined to let her get away with it.

Well. Verbally, at least. The smile on his face said enough about what he thought about it.

“So. Lots of beach sex in those books, huh?” he asked then, voice ripe with amusement where he’d lowered it for her ears, as they came within sight of the wharf. Red Force sat quiet, her sails rolled up and masts cutting the bruising sky, black flag sagging in the near-windless heat.

Makino shook her head. “It’s a popular setting, for some reason. I can no longer understand why.”

“No? A secluded cove, and only the sky watching?” He slipped her a wink. “Lots of heavily suggestive imagery of the tide coming in?”

She sighed. “Not you, too—”

“Naked bodies writhing in perfect synchronisation, like waves ebbing and swelling—”

“Shanks—”

“—and the _thrust_ of the sea against the shore?”

The look she shot him was trying very hard to be reproachful, but it was a feat maintaining it with the shameless grin he used to counter it.

“You tease, but you can’t tell me that was a successful venture,” Makino said, with a wave in the general direction of the beach they’d just left. “You pulled a muscle in your leg.”

“I also have sand in my ass and every other available crevice. Still totally worth it.”

When all she did was raise a brow, Shanks shrugged. “You let yourself go,” he told her simply, eyes twinkling. “And you laughed yourself to tears when I pulled that muscle. I call that a success.”

Makino shook her head, but stealing a glance found him still grinning, although it seemed more to himself now than directed at her.

And—he looked _happy_ , she thought. Not his usual good cheer and seemingly bottomless optimism, but something softer; a sated sort of happiness that gathered at the corners of his eyes, and his mouth. His shoulders were loose, no tension in them now; she’d felt it easing out of his back earlier when he’d come, and so hard the last thrust had made her eyes sting.

She’d felt the change, the weight of him heavy above her, but his kisses fleeting, featherlight touches against her skin, still stained with salt and seawater and grains of sand, a wavering grin hid against her breastbone that she thought he hadn’t meant for her to see. As though having her had taken something from him, some deep-seated tension that even their wedding hadn’t managed to loosen completely.

He looked peaceful. It made her wonder just how much he carried with him that he didn’t acknowledge, or that he wasn’t aware was even there.

She felt suddenly like suggesting they do it again. She still had sand everywhere and her hair was thick and tangled from the saltwater, but there was a reckless urge rising up within her, to tug at his hand, and to go back to where it had just been the sea and the shore and the two of them, and nothing else in the world.

Thinking about it — and Shanks, wearing that lazy, still-sated smile, Makino had to concede that, sand notwithstanding, maybe her books did have the right idea, after all.

They were stepping up into the village, several greetings offered to them in passing, and the sight of them drawing more than one pair of amused and knowing looks from the few people walking by. Shanks hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, and the one she’d borrowed was hanging off her, but Makino found she had precious few thoughts to spare the fact.

“How’s the hangover?” he asked her then, as they came to a stop by the docks. Makino spotted Lucky making his way to the tavern, giving them a wave.

She searched for the headache, but there was little more than a dull throb left. She thought of his laughter, back on that secluded beach. “Better,” she said, with a small smile.

She saw him stepping closer, the shade cast by his larger frame easing the tension in her brow, from squinting through the sunlight. “Yeah?” he asked. “We could try to cure it completely. I have a few ideas,” he told her, with a grin that held a promise, as he tucked some of her hair behind her ear. Makino had the wry impulse to ask if there was seaweed in it.

“So, what will it be?” he asked her then, nodding to the ship. “Mine or yours? My bunk is smaller, but on the plus side, I think most of the guys have made camp at the bar, so it’s either a smaller bunk with more privacy, or a big bed with a downstairs, captive audience.” He arched a brow, the gesture tugging at the scars, his eyes bright. “You’ve already been delightfully exhibitionistic today. I’m so proud.”

Her smile was startled, but it didn’t quite succeed in chasing off her earlier feelings. And there was that impulse again, to suggest they go back to that beach — or somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t _his_ or _hers_ , or that would carry the reminder that even married, there was still a world left to face once the honeymoon was over.

She wanted something that was theirs, Makino realised abruptly, and so fiercely it left her reeling.

Gathering herself, she tugged at his hand. “Ship,” she told him, lacing their fingers together. “I’ve endured enough jokes at my expense for one day.” She gestured to herself; the pants hanging loosely off her hips, and his rumpled shirt. “And they’d have a field day with this.”

Shanks just grinned, and Makino was relieved when he didn’t offer any quips of his own, although she didn’t doubt that he had plenty at hand.

Of course, the relief lasted about as long as his restraint.

“So,” he said, as they made to walk towards the gangway. “Out of curiosity, how much do you remember of what you said last night?”

Pausing on the gangway, Makino frowned down at him where he stood on the docks. “Why?” she asked, warily.

She got a shrug, as though it really was asked just out of curiosity, but then, “I just remembered a certain suggestion you had,” Shanks said, and Makino knew what was coming even before he raised his brows, and asked, “Something about a captain and a stowaway…?”

She stared at him. Then, calmly, “I am never drinking again.”

Shanks laughed, and she didn’t know if she even wanted to ask, but, “What else did I say?” Makino chanced.

The way he looked at her caught her off guard, because it wasn’t the shameless amusement she’d expected to find. Instead, his smile warmed into something curiously tender. “Four,” Shanks said, “is a good number.”

She blinked. “You’ve lost me.”

He grinned, but whatever he’d meant, didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and Makino decided she was too tired to push for an answer that made sense. He’d tell her soon enough, if it was important. Or lewd enough.

They’d stepped onto the deck, and like he’d suspected, the ship appeared empty. There were still petals from her braid strewn across the planks, swept to the far sides by the sea breeze.

“I know you’re not going to let that stowaway idea go,” Makino said, and when she found his brows lifting with anticipation, added wryly, “So before you make me walk the plank, could you order me to take a nap? Because I could really use one.”

His smile was contagious, and when he laughed it was a low, intimate sound. Then with an exaggerated sigh, “God, I’m glad you said that,” Shanks said, and when her brows quirked, added, “I was wondering how long I’d have to keep pretending that I can actually keep up with you. I’m ready to fall asleep on my feet.” He shook his head, as though at some inner lament. “This is what I get for marrying a younger woman. They say it will keep you young, but I’m inclined to disagree. I’m feeling all my years.”

She pinched his side, and got a breathless oath for her troubles. “Stubborn man,” Makino sighed over a helpless laugh. “This is the reading glasses all over again. Pretending won’t make you any younger. Just tired, and with poor eyesight.”

At his innocent look, she shook her head, and her next sigh was softer. “Come on,” she said, pulling at his hand. “Let’s take a nap. I’ll take the space next to the wall. I know the left side of that mattress is kinder on your back.”

His soft laugh was unbearably fond, and when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, she tucked her brow against his chest, allowing him to carry some of her weight, and felt his grin when he kissed the top of her head, and told her with a tired sigh,

“I think that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

 

—

 

The next few days passed her by in a blur, quiet mornings and noisy afternoons bleeding into each other, and so many evenings spent laughing, she could barely tell them apart.

They always seemed to be touching — never too far apart to be entirely removed from each other, small caresses smoothing seamlessly into embraces, and into kisses that sank so deep they never really resurfaced, seeming to be caught in some strange, dizzying limbo where it was difficult to remember that there was more to the day than kissing her husband out of breath.

And she’d heard people speak of _newlywed bliss_ , but had always discounted it as another heavily embellished concept, decorated with exaggerated, longing sighs and girlish fawning, but in the weeks following her wedding, Makino was hard pressed to find a better term to describe the sensation of waking up, her husband’s body wrapped around her, and feeling like laughing just _because_.

But even blissful to the point of distraction, life did go on. Days took shape through the half-delirious haze, and things started reassembling themselves back into something that resembled normality, early mornings up with the sun and regular patrons waiting — along with the crew of pirates that was hers, in more ways than one.

And it sat there, at the back of her mind, a patron in its own right; the knowledge that they’d be going back soon. Shanks was holding it off, Makino knew, but she’d caught the headline in the paper a few days ago, some skirmish in the New World between Blackbeard and the remains of Whitebeard’s fleet. Shanks had worn a frown she hadn’t seen before.

She’d begun steeling herself that morning, preparing for what was coming, whether she wanted it to or not. She hadn’t been fooling herself, thinking he was back to stay, and part of her had known, maybe even before he had come back to her, that she wouldn’t be going with him, as had been their original plan. The sea had been a different one, ten years ago when she’d made him that promise. He hadn’t been the pirate he was now; hadn’t had so much to lose, for being that.

No, she wouldn’t be going with him, Makino knew — not to that sea, which sat behind his eyes, every day a little darker than before. She’d made up her mind about that already, and when he’d finally broached the subject, reluctance in every hard line of his body, she’d made the decision for them both.

He’d been relieved, and hadn’t bothered hiding it. She wondered if it might be because part of him really did want to take her with him, despite the dangers, and that it was easier to accept the decision as she made it, than for Shanks to make it himself.

Of course, it wasn’t like making it had been easy for her. They’d been married just a few weeks, and she didn’t want to part with him yet, now that she had him. He might be a pirate, and an Emperor, whatever that meant on that terrible sea, but he was her husband now, too. That had to mean something, even in his world.

The day of their departure came too fast. Just a little over two months since their wedding, but it was the longest she’d ever had him to herself, and so she wasn’t about to grieve a loss that couldn’t even be called that.

She’d helped them prepare for the voyage — a familiar ritual, helping to keep her hands busy, and her thoughts from fleeting to the morning that awaited. But with the ship ready to set sail, there was nothing left for Makino to distract herself, and so she’d turned her attentions to her own affairs, small that they were.

She was putting away the box of fabrics from which she’d made her wedding dress, rolling up and sorting out the excess swathes of white lace and chiffon, thin silk ribbons and tiny seed-pearl buttons, to put them away, when her hands paused over a square of fabric.

She’d only used a little for her dress — Suzume hadn’t had much at hand, and for good reason, given the quality. Sheer and embroidered with lace, it had to be expensive, but the old woman hadn’t wanted to hear of it (“the hell am I going to do with all this fabric when I croak, take it with me to the afterlife? I guess you could use it to wrap my corpse, but I’d rather go in the grave not wearing a stitch—oh, don’t look so horrified, brat, I’ll be dead, you think I have time for shame? And if you’re not going to give the man a show, at least make sure the dress has some merit to it”).

She fiddled with the fabric, fingertips tracing the embroidered silver lacework and the rows of tiny pearls lining the edges. It looked like gently swelling waves, a delicate pattern of whorls bleeding into a seamless whole. It was beautiful, and there wasn’t much left, not even enough for a blouse, but—

But it might be enough for a very small dress.

The thought found her, as it had made a habit of doing over the past week; found her between breaths, between her routines and habits, seeming to seek places to make room for itself in her life, as if it knew she would have to do the same, soon.

She couldn’t be sure. She’d meant to ask Doc about it, but since she’d had her first suspicion the days had gone by so fast, and if she asked him now and it turned out that she _was_ …

Fingers pressing over her stomach, flat under her palm and yielding nothing else, not even a hint now that she wasn’t feeling like throwing up, part of her thought she might have imagined it all.

She should wait to tell him, until she knew for sure. It wasn’t like before, when he’d set sail ten years ago. He would come back this time, and not after a decade. All she needed was a few weeks to confirm it.

Indecision gripped her, thinking of the place he was setting sail for. What if he didn’t come back? After what she’d heard of Blackbeard, or even Kaidou and Big Mom…

She thought of the days when the New World had seemed like a storybook ocean, too far out of her reach to matter, and to have any kind of impact on her life, quiet and tucked away in the East Blue as it was.

It did matter now. She’d tied herself to it intrinsically the day she’d tied herself to the man who sailed it. And she might have married the man, and the pirate, but she’d married the sea, too.

And maybe there was a part of her, young and foolish, that still fancied herself that girl, who’d looked at him ten years ago and said _ask me again._ Maybe there was a small part of her that still wanted to be a pirate — to know what it felt like to sail the seas he had, and to face whatever lay before them at his side, not safe on her little island, as she always had been. Maybe she wanted to know what it would be like, to name herself a pirate, and feel like one.

“What difference could you make on that sea?” Makino murmured around a sigh, and let her hands drop, the swathe of lace slipping through her fingers.

It didn’t take much thinking to find the most likely answer. She had no sailing experience, and even if she could adapt to that life, there was no guaranteeing the sea would even let her. It would be better for them both that she stayed. Safer.

And if it turned out that her suspicions were correct, she didn’t just have herself to think about.

She heard Shanks’ footsteps on the stairs, and looked up to see him come to a stop in the doorway to her bedroom. He seemed to take a moment just to look at her, his expression unreadable, before he stepped inside, frown eased away with a smile as he caught sight of what she was doing. “Restless hands?”

The keenly knowing lilt to the question tempted a smile, although Makino felt how it faltered on her mouth. “Just putting some things away,” she said, and hoped her expression wouldn’t betray every single one of her thoughts. It wasn’t like she could hide anything from him, or that she even wanted to, but she couldn’t bring this up unless she was sure. Leaving was hard enough for him already; she wouldn’t add more worries to his heart on a hunch.

Shanks wasn’t buying her attempted ease, she saw, but whatever was on his mind, it weighed heavier than the need to coax out the truth from her. And maybe he was just chalking it up to her worrying about their departure, which, although true, wasn’t the main source of her concerns.

She thought of the slip of white lace in her hands, and that little dress in her mind. She wondered what he'd think about it—a child.

Something that was _theirs_ , she realised, and with a surge of feeling that stole her breath.

They hadn’t exactly talked at length about how they’d planned to go about starting a family. She wanted children — wanted _his_ children, red hair and cheeky smiles and that loud, wonderful laugh, but there’d been an implicit suggestion that they would wait with that. The war was still so fresh in her mind, and the loss she felt, thinking of the boy who’d never come back, who’d never again ask her to patch his shirts, or to sneak him a glass of scotch behind Dadan’s back on his birthday.

There’d be no more birthdays, Makino realised abruptly, her hands stilling on the piece of cloth, the little dress still in her thoughts. She felt suddenly cold, thinking of what she suspected. What if she really was—

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Shanks said then, as she clenched her fingers together, and made to stuff the last of the fabric back into the box. She hoped he couldn’t tell how badly her hands were shaking.

She knew he did when his hand came to cover her knuckles, rough fingers engulfing her own, but she didn’t lift her eyes to look at him, fixing them instead on his wedding band. “I know,” she murmured.

She gripped the edge of the box, before slipping out from under his fingers as she lifted it off the bed to put it away.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be gone,” she heard him say, and frowned. It wasn’t something she didn’t already know, and she wondered why he was bringing it up again. Then again, maybe it was for the exact same reason she couldn’t seem to keep her hands still.

Feeling suddenly, desperately tired, Makino sat down on the bed, her shoulders sinking, as though all the strength was bleeding out of her, after a week spent distracting herself from letting it waver. She had no will left for it now.

For a moment, all Shanks did was watch her, and in the quiet she listened to the muted voices drifting up from the common room below, from the last of the crew who remained. She’d closed the bar early, but some of them had lingered, likely to discuss their impending voyage. Ben and Doc. Yasopp too, she heard.

Shanks hadn’t said anything for a while, and Makino resisted the sudden, almost reckless urge to touch her hand to her stomach, knowing that if she did, there’d be no avoiding that conversation. And if he decided to stay longer and it turned out to be nothing, and something happened in the New World, to the islands that were under his protection, and the innocent people on them…

“Here,” he said then, and Makino looked up to find him holding something out for her to take, before he moved to take seat on the bed beside her.

Fingers reaching out for the offering, she turned it over in her hand, a bemused smile lifting as she raised her eyes to his. “Paper?”

Shanks’ smile was fond, but there was something behind his eyes that Makino couldn’t name. “It’s mine,” he told her. “It’s a vivre card.”

She frowned, the term unfamiliar. She tasted the words, sounding odd on her tongue. “Vivre card?”

Reaching for her fingers where they held the blank sheaf of paper, he turned her hand over until it was held between them, palm up, and Makino watched as he placed the paper down over the heart of it, before letting it go.

Her eyes widened when she saw it _move —_  inching slowly across the flat of her hand, towards him where he sat.

She looked up, only to find Shanks watching her pensively. “Is it like a compass?”

A small smile teased his mouth upwards, but it was a curiously hard thing. “Sort of,” he said. The pull of his brow was heavy, and he seemed to be selecting his words carefully. “It will move in the direction of where I am. And…it shows my life force.”

Something about the way he said it made her go very still, and her mouth felt dry when she repeated the words back. “Life force?”

He nodded. He wasn’t looking at her now. “It’s whole,” he said, and she glanced down at the paper in her hand, taking in the clean-cut lines and the careful folds. And he was right — there wasn’t a single tear in sight.

She heard him draw a breath, before letting it out, as though it took effort speaking the words. “And I have no injuries,” he added, evenly.

She put the pieces together, and her breath left her in a rush. “Then, if you—”

His fingers closed around hers, caging the sheaf of paper between them. “I won’t,” he said. Then, with more care, “But…I might. I don’t know what’s waiting for us in the New World when we go back.”

Makino swallowed, fearing to ask, but still needing to. “What happens to the paper if you’re injured?”

She felt him loosen his grip on her hand, his eyes fixing on the card, slowly shuffling across her palm where she held it between them. “The paper will burn,” he said.

She felt suddenly sick to her stomach, and she thought she had the answer to her next question even before she asked, “What—what happens if the whole thing burns up?”

Shanks said nothing, and Makino curled her fingers around the card, understanding sinking like an anchor to the bottom of her stomach. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to take it,” he said, meeting her eyes, something suddenly fierce behind them. “I thought I’d give you the option of having some kind of assurance, but if you’d rather not have that hanging over you—”

Makino tugged it close, surprised at the sudden surge of resistance at the prospect of parting with it. “No,” she said, closing her fingers around it. It felt slightly warm to the touch, although she wondered idly if it might just be her imagination. “No, I—I want to keep it.” She looked at him, watching her back with that expression she couldn’t place. “For better or worse,” she said. “That’s what we promised.”

The smile he gave her held a sombre edge, but also a familiar, near-unbearable fondness. “My steady, practical wife,” Shanks mused softly, fingers curved around hers where she’d closed them around the paper, before lifting them to press a kiss to her knuckles.

There were tears pressing against her eyes now, and her voice sounded thick when she said, “You need one of those.”

His grin came, too quick to be sombre now. “I do that,” he agreed. “So it’s a very good thing I have you to keep me anchored.”

She wanted to counter it with a light remark, something funny or suggestive, but her words failed her, and all she found when she looked for her voice was the sob pressing against her windpipe. Stubbornly, Makino swallowed it back down.

“Wait for me a little longer?” Shanks asked her then, mouth lifting in a familiar smile, half-teasing and hers. “I could bring you back something really extravagant to make up for it. A whole library. Well, the contents of one, at least. So many dirty novels you won’t have room for them all.”

“Bring yourself back,” Makino said. She felt keenly the weight of the paper in her hands, seeming suddenly heavier than it should. “That’s all I’m asking.”

His smile was soft, and a little sad, as though the words had prompted some old, private thought, but, “I think I can manage that,” Shanks said.

Makino wanted to return the smile — to at least try to convince herself she was feeling better about his departure than she was, but when she lifted her eyes to his, found her gaze going to the scars on his face instead.

She remembered the story he’d told her, of the one who’d given them to him. And Blackbeard was calling himself an Emperor now; was sailing the same sea, with the intent of claiming the whole of it.

Her fingers shook around the thin leaf of paper, at once unable to comprehend how it could do what he’d said it would, and feeling from its fragility, crumbling so easily in her grip, just how fitting it seemed. Strong as he was, the man she’d married was still mortal; was still human.

Blackbeard...she didn’t know what Blackbeard was. From what Shanks had told her, that term didn’t seem so easily applicable, although maybe that was just the part of her that wasn’t familiar with how far humanity could sink, and how dark a single man’s heart could become, under the right circumstances. He had no scruples, she knew. Blackbeard didn’t play fair.

 _He realised he was losing_ , Shanks had told her, his eyes far away, and the furrow of his brow deepening the grooves of the scars. _There was no way he would win. So he feigned a surrender—forfeited the fight. When I let my guard down, just for a second, he struck. Nearly took out my eye._

She felt cold, remembering the words. The way he’d spoken, with that calm surety. No anger, just a stark, unforgiving truth.

_Teach would rather be the loser if it meant he could have the parting shot, than be the winner in a fair fight._

Fingers tightening around hers once, Shanks took the card from her hand, to place it on her nightstand and out of sight. Makino tried not to look after it, or to fix her eyes on the now empty palms cradled in his lap.

“Hey,” he said then, nudging her chin up, smoothing his thumb over her cheek. “I haven’t left yet, and we still have until tomorrow before I do. Want to share a bottle and see which of us can out-flatter the other?”

Panic jumped in her chest, and for a second she thought there was no way she could lie her way out of this — that she might as well blurt her suspicions, but she scrambled for an excuse, and a smile that would soften it from sounding like complete bogus.

“Ah, nothing for me tonight,” Makino said, her laughter a little forced, and she saw from the slight furrow to his brows that he’d caught it, and stuttered to correct herself, “I mean—I’d rather be sober.” And it wasn’t a lie when she added, quietly if a little wryly, “I’d like to remember tonight.”

The look he gave her told her he was aware there was more to it than she let on, but his expression softened a bit at the words, and his mouth curved upwards. “Okay,” Shanks said, that one simple word that always meant so much more; that always had, for them. “What do you want?”

It was a question he had the habit of asking, but Makino thought there was no simple answer, at least not one that could be offered with words. How did you even go about explaining it, the feeling of wanting _everything_? Of waking up next to him, and of having those quiet moments every day, stealing the morning paper from his hands and slipping his reading glasses onto his nose, and laughing herself hoarse at ill-timed suggestions to reenact scenes from her favourite novels, always aimed at catching her off guard, but never said in jest.

How did she explain that she wanted it all — somewhere that was theirs, and a life together that didn’t include leaving and waiting; such a fierce, desperate longing for it she didn’t care if it meant uprooting her whole safe and quiet existence if it meant that she could have it. She _wanted—_

“You,” Makino said, simply.

The smile that tilted his eyes told her he’d heard the answer for what it was, but he didn’t tell her it wasn’t possible yet, or offer empty platitudes and assurances that they’d get there someday. Instead he just offered himself — all there was to give, and with a conviction that told her to _take._

He kissed the top of her head, and gripped her hands, then kissed her cheek, and her jaw, the corner of her mouth and her nose; a familiar, relentless assault that never failed to make her laugh, and when she let it go it rose, loud and bright under the ceiling, and followed by his own. And when she pushed him back onto the mattress to climb across him it lifted from his chest, a deeper sound that delighted too much in her to worry about what came after. He'd always been good at that, the not-worrying bit.

And so she didn’t think of the piece of paper on her nightstand, or the scrap of lace she’d tucked away; the little, fragile pieces of the future that had never seemed more sure, and yet never more uncertain. She’d think about those later, if it came to that. Right now she’d think about what she had in front of her. Not everything she wanted, not yet, but even if it wasn’t, he had always —  _always —_  been enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever get tired of writing them being ridiculously married and smitten with each other? Probably not.
> 
> (also, Ace was totally conceived on that beach)


End file.
